


Father Cristiano’s Redemption

by caixa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe – Church, Alternate Universe – Historical, Angel!James, Angels, Catholicism, Christianity, F/M, Fluff, Football, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Loss, M/M, Miracles, New Beginnings, Past Minor Character Deaths, Post-War, Refugees, Religion, Sex, Sorrow, Spanish Civil War, The Barry Horns, The French Foreign Legion, Wales, War-related violence, World War II, countryside, priest!Cristiano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 50,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caixa/pseuds/caixa
Summary: Father Cristiano Ronaldo is given one chance to redeem himself if he wishes to maintain his priesthood after a scandal in his former parish. It is to serve as a priest in a small village way across Europe. His prayers for guidance are answered in ways that change him forever.
Post-WWII-era village church AU.
A complete story with peaceful countryside nature, war veterans falling in love, surprise turns and strong emotions.





	1. Adventus humiliationis

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I never thought I would write an AU fic but look at me now. I have completed one and learned a lot along the way.
> 
> First, take heed that this fic has religious/christian content and in many points of the story religion intertwines with sexuality. There are characters struggling because their sexual actions contradict their religious beliefs, and there's a catholic priest with romantic/sexual relationships. There is also a supernatural / miracle element to the story. Read the tags and do the math. If the concept makes you uncomfortable, you'll probably find something else to read.
> 
> The present time of the story is the first summer after World War II, vaguely from July 1945 on. Most of the characters have been affected by the war and/or the Spanish civil war that ended in 1939 and there are flashbacks to the wars and talk about deaths occurred during them.
> 
> I am a christian but not catholic. I'm also not a historian or even a war history nerd. Writing this, however, I have done my homework and tried to find facts behind my fiction. This has led to extensive reading about, for instance, horse-drawn mowers or the selection process of the French Foreign legion. There have still been blank spots left that I have had to imagine but it has been fun.
> 
> My original working title before I posted the first chapter was Llanfairfechan which is a small town in North Wales, but I decided not to even try to base the community here on any actual place but just create an imaginary little place of my own. Some scenery elements resemble views I've seen on the TV series Hinterland / Y Gwyll which is set in Aberystwyth on the west coast of Wales; my imaginary nameless town would be further north. My sincere apologies to all Welsh people: I've never been there and my view of the land is based on media and extensive internet searches so everything that is wrong here is completely my fault.
> 
> English is not my native tongue and I didn't have a beta reader so I have nobody to blame for my linguistic errors, either.
> 
> All that said, I enjoyed my little journey to the unknown and I hope it's as fun to read as it was to write.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sheep shaggers and quarrymen! You will fit right in.”

His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury Alex Ferguson laughed wholeheartedly but muted it down, cleared his throat and added, as if remembering his prestige as the leader of the Church of England: “Sheep _shearers_ , I’m sorry.”

Father Cristiano had just told his old friend the name of the parish where he had been ordained to. He had still trouble remembering and pronouncing it: it was ridiculously long and seemingly full of L’s, f’s and ch’s.

“It’s in Britain, yes, but it is not England, I tell you, it’s Wales”, archbishop continued. “Your place is up north, between hills and salt marshes by the sea. If you are lucky, they have a football club. If you’re not, it is a rugby town. Either case: rugged place, rugged people. And you – well, you are you”, he said with a knowing smirk, waving his open hand at the young priest.

Father Cristiano Ronaldo was in his thirties, on the verge of being too beautiful to be a priest. The symmetry of his lips, the smoothness of his bronze skin and the curve of his brows were fit for a Hollywood star who would make ladies swoon in the greatest box office hit melodramas. His black cassock was not quite as humble as it would have seemed on the first glance; with his mother’s money, he had had it tailored to his athletic figure from finest wool and silk fabrics.

Father Cristiano had been a young seminarian, doing a part of his studies in Manchester, England, when he had met Alex Ferguson. Ferguson served at that time as the Archdeacon of Manchester, soon to be consecrated Bishop of Manchester, and he was in charge of an ecumenical charity project which gathered children from poor families in the name of “Food and Football”; it was a Christian football club, which also provided them with proper nutrition and Bible lessons.

The young Portuguese seminarian had been appointed to work there in behalf of the Roman Catholic church and he did it gladly: he loved working with children and had played football all his life, although less since he had started his studies to become a priest.

Ronaldo had befriended Ferguson, another keen footballer, almost immediately. They bonded despite the age gap, the vast difference in their status, despite being from different churches and speaking different languages.

Cristiano’s coaching and football skills and warm appeal to children were a delight to the Anglican archdeacon, whereas the young catholic student learned a great deal about the English language, football and overall human life from his experienced mentor.

This history had given Father Cristiano the confidence to try and contact the office of the busy and prestigious archbishop when he learned that he would be heading to the British Isles in order to work as a priest in a church in a small rural community, an environment he had no former experience of. Much to his surprise, his letter had been answered most heartily, and he had been invited to have lunch with His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury himself.

And there he sat now, listening to the grey-haired, friendly-faced man, as no years had passed between the present day and their previous encounter.

“From what I have heard, I think they will be content to have anyone”, father Cristiano said, picking a strand of hair from the hem of his cassock. “The parish has been without their own clergyman for years now. Their priest was killed in the bombings. And from what I heard, other townspeople were lost then, too.”

Archbishop Alex Ferguson sighed. “Add there the lives of the young men lost on the front. You will meet a lot of sorrow, Cristiano. I pray you will be able to carry it through. I’ve always seen you as a person who is built for happy times. I hope there’s more to you than that”, he said, surprising Cristiano with his straightforwardness.

“At least there’s peace now. If these aren’t happy times, we’re heading there”, father Cristiano answered.

He tried hard to believe it himself.

 

***

 

The train ride was long and tedious. Its highlight was a small child that kept peeking at Cristiano between the seats a couple of rows ahead and turned his head forward with a shy giggle whenever the priest answered his smile.

After a while the child started making faces at him, crossing his eyes, shoving his tongue out. Cristiano answered each new face mirroring it with a more exaggerated grimace, and soon got the little one laughing hard and loud.

That got the attention of the young woman who the child was travelling with, the mother, Cristiano assumed. She looked worriedly back from between the seats over her child’s head to see who he was making faces to.

She saw the smile of a handsome young man whose black brows curved over the clearest pair of brown eyes. She smiled looking at his eyes, batted her eyelashes down for a count of five seconds and looked at him again, hoping her hair and make-up were still all right after the journey.

On the second glance she noticed the man’s white collar, black cassock and pellegrina. She tried the hardest to make her smile look more apologetic than flirtatious, told her child to behave and turned her face back ahead before the blush of embarrassment reached her cheeks.

The woman with her child left the train some stations before Cristiano’s destination. He looked through the train window over the green hills. Some of them looked like a cloud had landed on the hillside but when he focused his eyes, they were always herds of sheep.

The archbishop’s harsh words rang in his ears and he prayed he would never slip them out of his own mouth. His new parishioners would hardly appreciate such a notion.

For a brief, passing moment he missed the city, the paved streets of Madrid and Lisbon where he had studied and served before. And if he worked very, very hard, showed great humility and prayed for guidance to stay true to his calling, someday he would return there.

_I’m not staying here forever_ , he thought to himself.

 

***

 

The village had its own train station but it was situated some miles outside the community due to the alignment of the railway.

Father Cristiano stepped out on the platform with his two travelling bags. Other pieces of luggage were lifted out of the goods wagon for him.

He saw only one car on the side of the station; beside it, there were a couple of horse carriages. Some people seemed to be leaving the station by foot or on a bicycle.

One of the horsemen jumped briskly off his carriage and approached father Cristiano in sturdy steps. He looked young, mid-twenties, and seemed quite tall from afar but close up he was no taller than the priest himself. He had almost black, somewhat outgrown wavy hair, a short beard along his strong, slightly lopsided jaw and friendly-looking blue eyes under prominent dark brows.

He took off his cap, bowed his head and extended his fit-looking arm to a vigorous handshake.

“Welcome to your new parish, father Ronaldo. Gareth Bale. Let’s get you to your rectory”, he said, offering his hand to take one of father Cristiano’s bags.

This Bale, his greeter, was going on faster than father Cristiano would have expected. He was a bit taken aback and tried hard to hide his struggle to catch up with the occasion.

He quickly went through his mind for the information he had received of his parish beforehand, shaking Bale’s hand slowly to buy some valuable time and letting it go hesitantly.

“Thank you, mister Bale. Are you the church verger?”

“Among other things, yes”, the young man answered him, smiling. He kept his hand extended towards Cristiano’s bag and nodded to him as a signal to hand it to him.

Father Cristiano turned his head towards the other pieces of luggage still standing on the station platform: there were two large trunks, made of leather and reinforced with metal studs. He gestured towards them with his hand.

“I have all these”, he said, not really knowing how to continue.

Bale scratched his head, pushing his cap back to the verge of falling off his untamed hair.

“Well well. They are no problem. You take the bags to the carriage, father, I’ll try to carry those. You may have to come to help me with the larger one if it’s heavy, though, I’m sorry”, he said eventually.

Father Cristiano had no problem with that. He quite liked stretching his limbs and utilizing his body, which his work as a priest seldom gave an opportunity. He whisked his bags swiftly to the open carriage and hurried back to the platform for the trunks, the skirt of his cassock wavering in the air with the speed of his stride.

At that moment Bale took an instant liking to the new priest. He looked so polished, even spoiled, to the outside, in his slick, well-oiled hair, impeccable black clothing, almost smugly curving lips and luxurious and lavish luggage, but with his hands-on approach to the situation he seemed no more detached from the normal life than his predecessor, the deceased and dearly longed father Gary had been.

Father Cristiano noticed that his verger was already carrying the first trunk by the handles on its shorter sides. When the priest caught him, he smiled and offered the other end for him to carry. In no time the both trunks were loaded on the carriage.

The only problem was that the carriage was now quite full of large luggage.

Bale scratched his head once again, frowning.

“I think I can rearrange them”, he said.

“Nonsense. There’s room for me to sit in the front, right?” father Cristiano said.

Bale gave him another smile.

“Well, hop on, then. Please. Father Ronaldo”, he said and offered the priest his hand to help him up on the driver’s seat.

 

“You don’t have many cars here”, father Cristiano said, to make conversation, when they had started their trip towards the rectory.

“Or we don’t use them much. Fuel shortage”, Bale said, shrugging. He nodded backwards to the carriage with his head. “But you have a lot in there.”

“Well, I have all the garments of my choir dress. And other clothes. And…” Cristiano paused for a moment “…utilities”, he muttered at last, in lieu of a better word.

He couldn’t tell anyone, least of all the down-to-earth layman who sat next to him and who would be his closest co-worker in his new church, what filled the other trunk.

It was such a reminder of his failure as a priest, of his vanity as a man, of his indulgent background, that it would take time to decide if it would ever be a part of his life. Until he knew, he had no choice but to keep dragging it with him; hang to it like a talisman, a lifeline.

 


	2. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Cristiano meets some new people.

St. Mary’s Church wasn’t too big, not too small either. Decent size for the parish, father Cristiano thought, when Bale drove the carriage past the grey stone building, grey stone bell tower ascending on its front, the yard surrounded by equally grey stone fences.

He would have liked to take a look inside at once, but the horse was already past the building and Bale turned it around the corner of the churchyard fence where a path led to the priest’s residence, the rectory.

It was a beautiful chalk white house with steep, dark slate roofs, chimneys breaking the line of the rooftops.

Bale stopped the horse, jumped down to open the gate to the yard and walked the horse through the gate, going back to close it behind them when the carriage was all the way through.

“It’s for the geese and hens. Not that it would stop them if they really want to escape but I think it keeps them from wanting to”, he explained to Cristiano.

“There are animals here?” father Cristiano asked surprised.

“Well, the stables, henhouse and the goose pond are all further across the backyard”, Bale gestured with his hand beyond the house. “My parents’ house is behind them and my own cottage is a bit further.”

“Do your parents live on these grounds?”

“Well, yes. I don’t know how much you have been told but you live in the rectory by yourself basically. I’m afraid the parish can’t afford any in-house staff for you, but Mrs. Bale – that is, my mother – comes daily to prepare meals and cleans. And dad - Mr. Bale – takes care of the fields. When I was… I mean, during the war he did most of my work. If you need anything, just ask them or me.”

“This is a working farm, then?”

“Not a big one, we don’t even have cows or sheep. So dairy products are bought, and most of the meat and fish. But of course there is the vegetable garden and an orchard. The fields are mostly for hay for horses, but we grow some grain too.”

Father Cristiano just nodded. This was all so different from any surroundings he had lived in before, and he was mildly dreading the early wake-up calls the birds would give him, or stepping daily into some bird feces. But in a way, it might be refreshing. A reminder of his earlier childhood – their neighbours before his family had moved to Lisbon had had hens, ducks and even donkeys. He should not be so prejudiced.

 

Frank and Debbie Bale were a friendly, chubby couple who helped their son carry father Cristiano’s belongings to the house. They showed the new priest around the cozy rooms and the office that was a little more on the ascetic side.

“You tell me what you’re used to having for breakfast, dear, and I’ll keep the kitchen cupboards stocked for you, love”, mrs. Bale chirped, blushed a bit and corrected herself, “father Ronaldo.”

Cristiano smiled and looked warmly in her eyes. “Dear is just fine, love is even better”, he said with a soft voice and Debbie was sure her knees went very tender and wobbly for a moment.

She managed to collect herself, smiled back at the priest and answered: “Only if you call me Debbie.”

“I will. If you promise to call me Cris”, father Cristiano said and winked at her.

Debbie was sure there would be people in the parish that would shake their heads behind the new priest’s back if talking like this was his usual style of conduct. She would not agree with them, not one bit; after the long, dark years of war, a handsome, flirty young man was just what this village needed, priest or not.

“Of course, Cris”, she said and winked back.

 

Cristiano headed back outside to look for the younger Bale. He wanted to thank him for the ride and ask him when he could show him the church.

Gareth had already taken the horse back to the stables and was on the front yard of the rectory talking to somebody. When he noticed Cristiano on the door, he gestured wildly for him to come to them. He was obviously very keen on getting father Cristiano to meet the other man.  
The older man who Bale was talking to had thick dark hair, big white front teeth, olive skin and piercing black eyes. He turned towards father Cristiano and Bale introduced them to each other.

“Father Ronaldo. Chris Coleman, mayor and choir leader”, he told. Cristiano realized that arrival of the new priest had been talk of the town for some time; it was obvious in the way he needed no further introduction to the other man than his name.

“Nice to meet you, mayor Coleman”, Cristiano said, shaking the offered hand.

Coleman looked deep into the priest’s eyes with his intensive gaze and held a moment of silence before he answered.

“We are happy. And fortunate. To have you with us”, he said.

Chris Coleman’s accent was even thicker than Bale’s. He dropped his words in heavy clumps of two or three like they weighed a pound each, leaving meaningful pauses in between.

“Thank you. I’m happy to be here”, Cristiano answered politely.

“You will be working together quite a bit, with the music”, Bale said to Cristiano.

“Yes we will”, Coleman told proudly. “Our choir is quite active; we sing in both churches and there is no event nearby without music. We often join with the local brass band, too, and it’s been very well liked.”

“The Barry Horns”, Bale told. “They are fabulous. Make lots of their own music.”

“Sounds… nice”, father Cristiano said, trying hard to hide his suspicion. He understood the choir, but a brass band? Maybe they meant the events in general, not the Sunday Mass.

Chris Coleman lent his large, wide hand on Bale’s shoulder. “And Gareth Bale here, he is an absolute power in our choir. And in everything in general. We are, you are, so fortunate to have this man working for our parish. I don’t think there is anything he can’t do.”

Bale smiled an embarrassed smile looking down on the ground, but the mayor kept talking, shaking the young man lightly by his shoulder. “Gareth has done brave things for the whole country. He is not a decorated war hero for nothing”, he said smiling.

That notion wiped the smile off Bale’s face. “Trophies for taking lives”, he said dryly.

Chris Coleman detached his hand from Bale’s shoulder, patted it apologetically and placed his hand on his own hip, turning to father Cristiano.

“So, father Ronaldo, would you be so kind as to come over to my office some day for a cup of coffee? We should discuss the possible future co-operation. Working together is the way we work here”, he said.

Cristiano was about to answer yes when the three men were suddenly interrupted. A young blond-haired boy ran towards them from the backyard.

“Gareth!” he shouted from afar.

“What is it, Martin?” Bale asked when the boy caught them, leaning to his knees, catching his breath.

“There is somebody to see you at your place. Mariano stayed there to talk with him because he spoke only very little English. He said his name was Ramos and Mariano told me he said he was from Spain.”

Bale gasped and his face went completely blank for a moment. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

Then a heated blush started crawling to his cheeks and a smile slowly wrinkled the corners of his eyes and turned the corners of his mouth upwards.

“Thank you, Martin!” he said and, to father Cristiano’s surprise, tugged him by the sleeve of his cassock. “Come on, father, there is someone I want you to meet.”

“Mariano said that the man told his business concerns the new priest, too!” the boy shouted to Gareth’s back.

Gareth was already walking, dragging the priest with him. Cristiano turned to wave Chris Coleman for goodbye.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, mayor Coleman! I’ll get back to you!”

 

Halfway to his cottage Gareth started to regret his impulsive decision to take father Cristiano to meet his visitor. He wasn’t quite sure where he had got the idea: maybe it was because he instinctively liked and trusted the new priest, maybe he just wanted somebody to be by his side, like he needed a witness to ensure that this was really happening.

It took time to realize that a priest, let alone a catholic priest who might quite well have contact to Franco’s Spain, would very likely be on the very bottom of the list of people Sergio Ramos would like to meet. Gareth cursed himself in his mind for his reckless whim that could in the worst case put his friend’s safety in jeopardy.

But Gareth couldn’t send father Cristiano back now, either.

He would just have to be very cautious with his words.

 

 


	3. Reminiscere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gareth and Sergio meet for the first time after the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter is a flashback to Gareth and Sergio's previous encounter.
> 
> I remind you that the history background here is very vague, inaccurate and fictional. More inspired by Inglorious Bastards or Call the Midwife than research on actual history :)
> 
> The time frame suggests that the events might be linked to the Ardennes or Alsace offensives and you're free to think so if you want, I had Alsace in mind.

**France, previous winter**

 

Gareth runs through the dark field. He is focused, keeps his steps as light and his breath as silent as possible. Snowflakes are falling, the weather makes the operation perfect, their footprints will be covered in the matter of hours.

The pistol on his belt is warm after one shot. He and Ramos have done as planned, stayed behind the rest of their squad until the smoke from the hand grenades is cleared, checked the German bunker, made sure everybody is dead, with gunshots if necessary.

He has noticed slight movement in a dark corner, heard a squeaking sound and fired his pistol immediately. Only to find a dead rat on top of the corpse of a Waffen-SS-man; the nosy rodent had smelled blood from the skin and flesh torn by shrapnel before meeting its destiny.

In a way, it was a waste of a bullet, if there is one rat others will follow along as soon as they leave. Still it somehow eases Gareth to think that he has shot that one dead, kept at least that one from gnawing the body of the killed enemy soldier under his eyes.

 

The amount of moonlight that penetrates through the clouds is enough for his accustomed eyes to find the planned route. He runs after Ramos along a shallow ditch, just enough cold water on the bottom to distract any followers.

The rest of the squad must be already safe in their headquarters. He and Ramos will run along the pit of the ditch, jump over a deeper ditch, a brook actually, to the woods, walk through the woods to a hay barn, abandoned when the nearby village was evacuated, stay there for the night.

In the morning they will meet up with the rest, ambush the German car that is, according to their source that only Zidane meets, taking supplies to the bunker. Their task is to make sure it never gets there. The supplies will feed and arm the resistance, not the dead Germans in the bunker.

Gareth hears the slight crackle of breaking twigs up ahead, Ramos is over the brook.

He reaches the end of the shallow ditch himself, takes a good leap, lands on the bank but somehow wrong. The dead grass is slippery from the new fallen snow, he gets a grip from the bushes but the twigs break in his hand.

He slides down on his knees, his feet splash in the brook through a thin layer of ice and snow. The water runs deeper than he thought, when his boots hit the bottom he’s up over his waist in the water and it’s colder than anything he has felt in his life. If ice forms on a running stream it means that the water is at freezing point. He feels his clothes soaking and it’s bad news, hypothermia is near.

He pushes with his feet to get himself back up but the bottom of the brook is slippery mud, it slides under his feet and he falls flat on his face in the water. The sound of the thin ice crackling is faint but the splash of the water is loud and suddenly he is more ashamed than afraid, this can’t be the end of him, stumbling on his feet like this, drowning in a bloody muddy ditch.

He is no clumsy idiot, he is here because he is an elite soldier, on loan from his own unit to help out resistance; with his new found international brothers he does things unmarked in any logs or records. They sabotage, rob, assassinate. They kill, kill, kill; shoot, stab, detonate. Knives, pistols, rifles, hand grenades, mines. Before the enemy knows what hit them they’ve already moved on.

He feels his clothes soaking with icy water. It reaches his skin. Wet. Heavy. Cold.

He can’t feel his fingertips.

He feels himself pulled up, first by his backpack that’s still over the water surface, then under his arms. Sergio Ramos has strong fingers that grip him tight, strong arms, legs, thighs and back that tense to pull Gareth’s weight up the slippery bank.

Gareth reaches support under his feet, feels the sole of his soaked boot finally get a grip on the brook bank, pushes his own weight to help Sergio’s pull.

“Thanks, Ramos”, he whispers, panting.

“Sergio, stupid”, Sergio answers, rubbing Gareth’s back.

Gareth is up on dry land on his all fours, gets up on his feet. Water flows and drips from his clothes and makes wet holes in the white snow. At the same time the fabric is stiffening in the freezing cold air. He does not have much time.

Sergio drags him by the elbow, keeping the distance between their bodies to keep his own clothes as dry as possible, determination in his steps. He steers clear of scratching branches of the trees, straightest line through the woods.

Gareth knows he’s been saved.

 

***

 

Father Cristiano had seldom felt so out of place in his life. Bale had been very insistent on bringing him to meet his guest, but during their short walk to the young man’s cottage he had fallen silent, just strode downhill towards his cottage which appeared to be another chalk white building with dark brown woodwork in the corners and a steep slate roof.

Two men stood in front of its door. Younger of them, a brown-skinned, slim, fit-looking boy waved at them, greeting them with a happy white smile.

“Here, Gareth! Mr. Ramos here has something for the both of you”, he said.

“Hello, Mariano. Thanks for keeping company for him. Could you go help Martin with the horses? I took harness off from Del but you two could brush her and take her to the pasture”, Gareth said.

“Of course, if you don’t need me here, Gareth”, Mariano said. Gareth shook his head. “No, we manage”, he said, looking at Ramos with a faint smile on his face.

“Nice to meet you, mr. Ramos”, Mariano said in Spanish and left.

Cristiano looked at Mariano’s leaving back and Bale’s guest. This Welsh village was more internationally connected than he would have thought and he hoped he would get an explanation later on. He didn’t like guessing things around him, it made him feel disoriented.

 

Bale was of little help there. He had already directed his undivided attention to the visitor.

Cristiano observed the greeting rituals of the two men. He couldn’t think of any other word than ritualistic to describe their behaviour.

It was funny to look at the way they mirrored each other’s smallest gestures and expressions, like it was the language they used to communicate to one another. Even in their physical appearance they resembled distorted mirror images of each other; all their differences such as hair color and texture, skin tone or the colour of their eyes made them in a funny way even more similar to each other, two individuals of the same breed.

First they just gazed at each other, eyes looking around like registering the details of a familiar face neither of them had seen in a long time. Then they, simultaneously, threw their arms around each other and hugged, laughing and rocking on their feet from side to side.

They parted from the hug leaving their hands on each other’s shoulders, rubbing them, exchanging meaningless greetings in a jumble of English and Spanish and proceeded to kissing each other on both cheeks enough times for father Cristiano to lose count.

More babbling in each other’s faces in mixed languages, accompanied by vivacious hand gestures. Finally settling in a loose embrace that tightened slowly until they held each other bodies together, cheek to cheek. Ramos had his arms around Bale’s back, and Bale hung on the other man’s neck so needily that father Cristiano had to look away after a while.

Not that he felt anything was wrong with the situation; it just reminded him too much of another desperate hug, the one that had led him badly astray in his life.

 

Slowly, like finally satisfied and ready to face the rest of the world, Bale and Ramos parted and turned to father Cristiano. Bale’s smile remained as glowing and wide as it had been during their greeting, but Ramos turned almost deadpan looking at the priest.

Bale introduced the men formally to each other and Ramos shook father Cristiano’s hand with a watchful expression on his face.

“Father Ronaldo has studied in Madrid”, Bale told. Cristiano sensed there was more said than the words alone.

“Do you still keep contact to Spain, father?” Ramos asked.

Cristiano pondered his words for a while. Honesty would be the best policy, he decided.

“Not really. I was there in seminary but my closest friends of that time didn’t stay in Spain as priests. Neither did I. I spent some of my last seminary months in England. After completing seminary I moved back to Portugal and was ordained as a deacon there.”

“Why?” Ramos asked. Cristiano was a bit taken aback by his interrogative tone but decided to remain calm and polite.

“I am from Portugal. My family lives in Lisbon. I wanted to stay close to them.”

Ramos looked at him tentatively with his close-set brown eyes and seemingly decided that the answer was enough.

“Well, father Ronaldo, your family cares about you very much”, he said.

He produced a thick envelope from the pocket inside his jacket and handed it to Bale.

“Maria Dolores dos Santos Aveiro wishes to make a donation to the parish and church of St. Mary to help paying the wages of the priest.”

“My mother? This is a surprise. Did she send anything else?” Cristiano asked.

“There’s a private letter for you”, Ramos told and handed another envelope to father Cristiano; this was a thin one.

“How on earth did he come to contact with your mother?” Bale asked father Cristiano who looked questioningly at Ramos.

Ramos shrugged his shoulders. He had a tired look in his eyes.

“Everybody needs work. This is what I do. When somebody needs to send something valuable or important but they don’t trust or don’t want to use the formal ways, they find me. She found me. I didn’t ask why it was me, I took the job. Even more happily when I heard a familiar name.” He spoke in Spanish but looked straight in Bale’s eyes. He and Cristiano nodded in unison.

 

Father Cristiano left with his mother’s letter. Gareth opened the door to his cottage after suddenly realizing he hadn’t even asked the other men in.

Had he completely lost his manners over the joy of meeting Sergio who he never had dared to wish to meet again? Yes, he had.

He had so many questions but the first one was the most important.

“You’re not leaving soon, are you?”

Sergio answered him with a smile.

“I’m not needed anywhere.”

 

***

 

**France, previous winter**

 

The hay in the barn has been used halfway, the remaining part stored in the back. Sergio dares to make a small fire near the entrance.

He undresses Gareth from his wet clothes, sits him by the fire, rolls out his own blanket from his backpack and wraps it around Gareth, rubbing it to his skin to increase the warmth with friction. He wrings water out of Gareth’s garments, shakes and stretches them and hangs them on the rafters that support the barn roof above the fire.

He knows he can’t keep the fire burning through the night, the light may be noticed.

He unpacks Gareth’s backpack; its contents are not completely soaked, it has held some water but everything is damp. Except the blanket that is miraculously dry, it’s been rolled and tied on the top of the backpack and kept above the water through the whole ordeal.

Sergio spreads Gareth’s blanket in the middle of the pile of dry hay. He puts out the fire with snow from the outside, smothers the dying flames stomping them with his boots.

He helps Gareth on top of the hay, makes him lay down in the middle of the blanket. He strips himself down to his briefs, lays down next to Gareth, spreads his own blanket over them, wrapping it around their feet and tucking the two of them up as warm as he can. He piles all his own dry clothes on top of the blanket and pulls some hay for covers over the layer of clothes.

He laces his feet with Gareth’s, rubbing them with his, closes his arms around him, pulls him close. He can only hope it will be enough.

 

Gareth feels Sergio’s stubble to his cheek, his warm body on his skin that stings and tingles when warmth slowly returns to his chilled being. He feels close to either fainting or dozing off but awakens wide inside his mind, inside his body, when he feels Sergio’s lips on his face and neck.

He has not been this intimate with anyone since the night before he was sent to the front, the night it hurts too much to even think about.

Sergio kisses him, softly, again and again. Gareth feels the warm lips on his cheeks, temples, forehead, brows, eyelids; the side of his neck, earlobe, the bridge of his nose. Each and every kiss feels like a lingering mark on his skin, burning like droplets of hot wax from the candles he used to carry as an altar boy in the church, his second home.

Sergio’s lips touch the corner of his mouth, the other corner. They press softly right in the middle of his closed lips, once, twice, stop there.

Gareth feels a flame burn inside him. What is Sergio doing? What does he want?

As if he doesn’t know. He has so few common words but so much common experience with Sergio that he reads his body easier than he listens to many people speak. For years back in Spain and now again in France they have fooled death together and killed for each other, shared and overcome battles that have tied them close as brothers.

Sergio is keeping him alive, that’s what he’s doing. He wants him to live.

He is giving him a way ahead, moving his lips just so slightly that Gareth could take it as a hint to kiss him back, part his lips, give him permission to study his mouth with his tongue, but it is still so subtle that he can just stay there, steady, face to face, slowly drifting to sleep.

What is Gareth supposed to do? What does _he_ want?

He wants to live.

He wants to do what would make every cell of his body scream the feeling of being alive, drown in a kiss that could set him on fire.

 

There is still a chance that he misreads Sergio. There is still a chance to ruin the friendship, the brotherhood they share with one hasty, awkward move.

There is still the fact that he is brought up to be a good catholic boy.

Gareth turns and bows his head just a little bit, just enough for his lips to shift off Sergio’s. He rests his lips against Sergio’s chin, just down from the corner of his mouth.

He keeps nuzzled as close to Sergio as he can.

Sergio hugs him tight.

He won’t let Gareth die tonight.

 

Gareth wakes up fists curled up under his chin, against Sergio’s chest, like a fetus inside the womb in Sergio’s embrace. His feet feel numb from the weight they’ve been under because Sergio has been warming them with his own. His head rests on Sergio’s bicep and he’s a bit embarrassed, Sergio’s whole arm must be numbed from the pressure.

Sergio opens his eyes and smiles at him. Gareth sees he’s happy to see him alive and well.

He gives a small kiss on Gareth’s nose and rubs his back with his free hand, he’s tactile like that, always been; touches are like air and water to him, something he needs to keep alive, Gareth has learned that.

Their breath shows as puffs of steam in the cold winter air inside the barn. Sergio’s clothes and hay have served well as insulation; Sergio dresses himself, jumps down to reach Gareth’s clothes from the rafters, they’re cold but dry, ready to wear soon.

They do what they do best. Meet with Zidane and the boys, ambush, attack, kill and rob; now they have one new car, food, fresh water and ammunition for at least a week and weapons of the dead Waffen-SS-men in the car and the bunker.

Gareth will not be using those with them, though. He is alive but there are so many British soldiers that are not that he is transferred back to his old unit, back with the Welsh boys, to clear the Rhineland.

He barely has time to say goodbye, and Sergio has no address to swap with him.

 

 

 


	4. Whisper words of wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano gets some words from two mothers. Who will give him more answers, his own or Gareth’s?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a dialogue-heavy chapter that mostly looks into the back stories of the people but I think it's essential to get to know the characters a bit more.
> 
> I've had some trouble thinking what age I would write Martin and Mariano. They're closer to each other in age here than in reality, and younger.

 

Father Cristiano opened the envelope as he walked back uphill towards the rectory and glanced quickly over his mother’s letter. The familiar, ornate handwriting and Portuguese words soothed his tired eyes but he found he couldn’t really concentrate on what his mother had to say. He gave the paper a kiss, folded it back to the envelope and promised himself to read it more thoroughly when he was alone in his room, settled for the night.

Near the house he caught up Debbie Bale who was walking towards the rectory with a basket on her arm.

“Hello Cris! We already had supper at home and I thought it would be convenient to bring you some. Poor darling, you haven’t even eaten all day, have you?” she chirped.

Cristiano smiled at her.

“What a blessing you are, Debbie. Yes, it’s been quite a day.”

It really was so. Since the train had left London everything had been new and unfamiliar: the train change in Cardiff, the green scenery slowly changing to steeper hills, a swirl of new people before he had even unpacked his luggage.

Debbie went inside the building through a smaller door on the back corner of the house and Cristiano followed her. They were in a kitchen that had slate floors, a large stove, a fireplace and a sturdy-looking wooden table with a few unpainted wooden chairs around it.

“Would you like to eat in the dining room or the breakfast room?” Debbie asked.

Cristiano shrugged, looking around himself. “I think it would be nicer if we eat here”, he said.

Debbie registered ‘we’ and set plates for the both of them on the kitchen table. She wasn’t hungry but if he made their priest eat basically their leftovers in the kitchen, at least she should keep him company not to make him feel completely unwelcome.

 

“So, Debbie, do you know the Mr. Ramos who came to meet your son?” Cristiano asked over the delicious lamb stew.

“I have never met him and I was really surprised to hear that he was here. When Martin told me I even thought it couldn’t be the same Ramos that Gareth has talked about”, Debbie answered.

“Apparently he was. They greeted like long lost friends.” Cristiano felt his words to be an understatement. Gareth had seemed like a completely different person with the Spaniard. Earlier in the day, with father Cristiano and the mayor, he had been quite quiet, friendly but sparing with his words, but with his guest he was loud, vivid and touchy, like he had turned Spanish himself for a moment.

“Where does Gareth know him from?” he asked. Cristiano was curious and he wondered if he was being too nosy, but Debbie had won his trust so immediately that he felt he could talk with her quite freely.

Debbie took a moment of silence. “I can tell you what I know but I’d like you to tell me something first, Cris, if you don’t mind.”

She had decided she had no choice but to be direct. She hoped it wouldn't lead to trouble.

Cristiano nodded.

"What was your stance during the civil war in Spain?" she asked, looking Cristiano straight in the eye.

Cristiano kept his gaze on Debbie and collected his thoughts. He would have to start from the very beginning to make Debbie understand, to make himself understand, even.

 

"I’ve never wanted to do things the easy way, the obvious way”, he started. ”I could have started my studies in my home town, or somewhere else in Portugal, but I wanted to do something else.” He shook his head, looking into his memories.

“Spain seemed like a challenge, the biggest possible. It was those years when there had already been churches burned, priests killed. I thought I needed to show where I stand, try to leave my mark, make a difference in a country where church was struggling."

Debbie nodded, face serious. She saw a trace of sadness in Cristiano's brown eyes, but at the same time a faint flash of enthusiasm; it was clear that he remembered the emotion he had had as a young student, everything ahead of him.

"For the first seminary years, the situation was not that bad. My life was very much filled with my studies, learning, building myself up spiritually. And spending time with my fellow students." The last notion made Cristiano let out a chuckle and shake his head.

Debbie could only imagine what fun memories were behind the gesture - she could guess that their future priest had been quite a handful in a big city, out of control of his parents, surrounded for the first time in his life mostly with other boys of his age.

"Of course, we saw and sensed war coming and later on all around but we lived our lives. The seminary was at times evacuated outside Madrid. Sometimes a teacher might be missing. People on the streets sneered at us, occasionally, if we walked around in clothes that showed we were people of clergy.”

Cristiano fidgeted on his seat, crumbling a piece of bread.

“I was actually torn inside. I could not understand the hatred towards the church. But the bombings against civilians were something even worse. I could not believe that people who claimed to be on _my_ side, the people who said they were defending the country, the church, the traditional way of life, would make their own people suffer like that.”

“I know something about bombings, believe me”, Debbie said, reaching for Cristiano’s hand. “I am glad to hear you cared for the victims.”

Cristiano gave her an anxious look.

“I didn’t care enough. I was a coward. I didn’t see a chance for myself in that place any more. I started searching other options.” His words came out fast, a spurt of confession, which was not very typical for him, he thought to himself.

“I applied for a chance to transfer my studies to another seminary, one that was not Spanish but held by the catholic church of England and Wales in Spain. You know, they started it when the church was abolished from England, centuries ago. I got in. Then, for the last part of my studies, I had a chance to go to England for about a year. Of course I took it.”

“Where did you go?” Debbie asked.

“Manchester. It was... it was one of the best years of my life. I did something very different from anything I had learned before or done before - it was less church service, mostly charity work. It was just... wonderful." Smile and enthusiasm had returned to Cristiano’s face.

"What kind of charity work?"  Debbie asked.

"You won't believe this. Football", Cristiano said and nodded his head, smiling.

"What kind of charity is that?" Debbie teased, but couldn't help smiling back despite her doubtful words.

"It was this Anglican priest's idea, a really good one. It was called ‘Food and Football’ - we gave the children a hearty meal when they came to practice in our football school, and had a short bible lesson and prayer after practice. Their families had a chance to have a nurse or doctor take a look at the children, and we sent food packages and vitamins to homes of our players as well. It was all ecumenical, people from different churches running it."

"That does sound like a good idea", Debbie admitted.

"Oh yes, it was. Alex Ferguson, who invented it, he was a genius."

"Same Ferguson? The Archbishop of Canterbury?" Debbie sounded surprised.

"Yes, him, he was in Manchester then."

"Of course."

"And you know what was the best? It was always food first, sport first. You know, many of the families whose children really needed the extra nutrition, and the healthy play outside, the poor people, working class people, could be a bit red, you know, suspicious of churches and priests. But Alex won them over. I loved working with him. With the children. How they wanted to learn all the skills I could show them, how proud they were when they accomplished something."

Debbie nodded, she could understand how Cris had felt about his work.

"Anyway, it came to an end. When I had to go back, the atmosphere in Spain was completely torn in two. And I knew where I stood. I knew that the families where my football kids came from would be just those that would suffer under the bombs.”

Cristiano gnawed inside of his mouth with his teeth, looked above him and turned his eyes back at Debbie.

“But I never said it out loud. I was still a coward, a selfish coward. I still just wanted to run away. I finished my studies as fast as I could. I searched for places to start working towards being a priest, to be ordained as a deacon; I preferred England but it wasn’t so easy to get there as a foreigner any more. The first good chance was in Lisbon, in a well-off parish near my mother’s house, you know, my home. So I went there.”

Debbie took his hand in hers, looking the priest deep in the eye.

“Cris. Don’t beat yourself up over your choices. I’m sure you ended up where you were meant to be. You were in a place that maybe needed a priest but didn’t want one. You went to a place that wanted a priest, needed it or not. And if you had spoken up in Madrid, at that time, you might be dead as a martyr by now. And where would our parish be if that was the case? Not with a nice young man as our priest, that’s for sure”, she said.

Cristiano squeezed her hand gratefully but shook his head. “It takes more than nice to be a good priest”, he said.

“Maybe, but sometimes nice is just what the doctor ordered”, Debbie answered.

Cristiano went on. “I knew my country was not any better, Portugal had assisted Franco’s troops just like Germany and Italy. For me it was just an easy way out.”

“And you’re not comfortable with easy, is that it?” Debbie asked with a slight smile pulling the corners of her lips upwards.

“I guess not”, Cristiano answered.

 

Debbie stood up to collect the plates and placed them carefully in the sink. She turned back to Cristiano rubbing her hands together and asked if the priest wanted some pudding.

Cristiano shook his head. “No, thank you, I’m fine like this. I have not much of a sweet tooth”, he said.

“Not even strawberries? I have some fresh from a late crop, and nice thick cream.”

“If you share some with me, Debbie, then thanks, I’d love to. But spare the cream.”

Debbie set bowls on the table and sat back with Cristiano.

“You’re not that different from my Gareth, Cris”, she said.

“I think anybody would be tempted to have fresh strawberries for dessert, not just me and your son”, Cristiano answered.

Debbie laughed, waving her hand at Cristiano.

“You can’t think I meant that, Cristiano”, she said. “I meant reaching the challenges, not choosing the usual way, the easy way.”

Debbie paused and looked at Cristiano with a very serious expression on her face.

“Father Cristiano, Cris, this is not a confession but I am telling you this with confidence. I want you to understand something Gareth has gone through”, she said.

“Of course. Please, tell me”, Cristiano said.

Debbie placed her hands on her lap and started.

 

“Gareth has always felt very strongly about justice, about things being right. He heard the news from Spain, he searched for them actively, and before I realized how serious he was, he had volunteered to join the international brigades to fight there.”

Cristiano was surprised. The Bale family certainly didn’t seem like socialists to him, peaceful farmers living on the church’s grounds, working for the church.

“I think he was heavily influenced by old Owain Fôn Williams who lived in Gareth’s cottage before – he left it for Gareth when he died, he didn’t have his own heirs. Old Owain had worked in the slate quarry before, and was still active with the workers’ union, but he was involved with the church, too, he has even painted some fine artwork there. Things were not so black and white here.”

Cristiano nodded, he could understand that.

“Gareth left. I feared for his life. He was out for almost two years and we received only a couple of letters during that time. We were in horror. Some other Welsh boys who had joined in the brigades had died in the battles and the news reached their home always quite late, and then the ones who survived started coming back home alive, but no sign of Gareth.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. It must have been devastating”, Cris said.

“One day he just emerged out of nowhere, on horseback, riding the most beautiful white horse. It had a fine saddle, too, shiny leather, shiny large metal studs. Quite a contrast, he was all ragged and tattered and dirty himself” she shook her head to the memory, Cristiano could picture the sight and the mother’s disbelief in what she saw.

“I asked about the horse, I was afraid he had stolen it from some rich house his troops had looted in the war. He said it was a gift from one if his comrades in the war, a man called Sergio Ramos. It was hard to believe, but he convinced me it was true. This Ramos came from a wealthy family of horse breeders but had his strong own views of life and society. He was fiercely red, an atheist, hell of a soldier and leader.” Cristiano guessed Debbie was citing Gareth’s exact words at the end of her sentence.

“When  Franco had taken over the whole country, he had taken horses from his family stables and some of the men fled on horseback over to France, where he gave Gareth the horse, thanked him for fighting on their side and told him to go home.”

“It’s a big gift. Your son must have done important things for him”, Cristiano said.

“Yes, a kind of gift some royalty might give. I asked often but Gareth refuses to talk about the wars. I stopped asking.”

“He doesn’t think too highly about the war in general, I have gathered”, father Cristiano said, remembering Bale’s attitude when Coleman had praised his military success.

“I don’t blame him. He’s seen a lot, and he’s lost a lot”, Debbie said.

“Oh. Can you tell me?” Cris asked.

“It’s a whole another story. As soon as Gareth got home from Spain he proposed to a neighbourhood girl, Emma. A sweet girl, they had known each other since childhood, big brown eyes, brown locks – they were made for each other. They got engaged but then Gareth got drafted and sent off to our own war. He was granted a leave for wedding a few months later, I think Chris Coleman and father Gary pulled some strings to get him out, but just days before he was supposed to come, Emma was killed in the bombings, the first Swansea raid. She was down south to participate her cousin’s wedding, she was supposed to bring back the bride’s veil, to borrow it herself.” Debbie had tears in her eyes.

“That was when our priest was killed, too. Father Gary was also related to the bride and she wanted him to wed them. The whole wedding house was bombed to shreads.”

Cristiano felt a lump in his chest hearing about the loss the Bale family had suffered.

“I’m sorry for your loss. For your family, the village, and Gareth”, he said, squeezing Debbie’s shoulder gently.

“Thank you, Cris”, she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

Debbie glanced out of the window.

“It’s getting late already. I’ll do the dishes and you can get settled and rest. I’ll send one of the boys to bring you breakfast and I’m sure Gareth will be happy to show you the church tomorrow”, she said.

“I think your son and Ramos have some catching up to do”, Cristiano said despite himself, wondering if there was something odd in the tone of his voice when Debbie gave him a squinted glance from the corner of her eye from her position in front of the sink.

“But I’m glad if he has time for me tomorrow”, he continued, a bit apologetically. He remembered Debbie talking about the boys. “Martin and Mariano, are they… yours?” he asked.

“They are my boys now”, she said very firmly.

“Those poor orphans came here as refugees from Norway when it fell under the Nazi invasion. They were in an orphanage held by religious sisters. There were all kinds of children. All races, different nations. Handicapped children, gypsy children. They knew what would happen to them if they couldn’t keep the place safe. Just think about our boys. Martin might have been adopted by some SS officer, but Mariano…” she shook her head, it was needless to say more.

“The nuns gathered money as quickly as they could, got places on a ship across the sea to Newcastle, and the children were scattered around in convents and church’s orphanages around the land, and for volunteers in different parishes such as us. Mariano and Martin were some of the oldest ones, so they got the place furthest way away. They were alone, just the two of them, when we saw them on the train station.”

Debbie had long been finished with the dishes and dried her hands on her apron.

“So they are our boys. I got a message that they could go back now, but what for? Mariano is soon eighteen, Martin follows after a year or so. They would go to the orphanage and in the matter of months or at least a couple of years they would be kicked on their own again. No, they have been tossed around enough for one childhood.”

“Do they know they could go back?” Cristiano asked.

Debbie sighed.

“I haven’t told them yet. I fear that they would feel that they are obliged to leave.”

“Don’t you think it should be their choice?” Cristiano asked.

Debbie looked down, tears were gathering in her eyes.

“I don’t know. I hope they are happy here. If they leave, I’d be afraid they were not.” she looked up at Cristiano, forcing a smile on her lips. “And you would be short of two very good altar boys.”

 

***

 

**_From the house of Dos Santos Aveiro_ **

_Dear Cristiano,_

_If this letter has reached you I know I was not wrong to trust the Spanish soldier to get his work done. Feel free to send a letter back along with him, if you wish, I will be happy to learn that you are safe and sound, dear son. I enclose some money for your personal use, but you don’t have to use that if you wish to reward the delivery man, I will take care of it in this end._

_I still feel that dealing straight with the Vatican has been the right route to follow. I trust this misstep will eventually be only a minor setback on your career. Everything is still very restless and in progress all around Europe. I think being of assistance to people of a nation that ended up on the winning side through great suffering will be seen as an asset on your behalf._

_My prayers are with you. Let the countryside air treat your skin and lungs well, enjoy the change of scenery. Be pious and follow our Lord’s guidance, as I trust you always do._

_Your sisters and brother are well and send you their kisses._

_Your loving mother_

_Dolores_

 

 

Cristiano read the short letter over and over again, turning the paper around, peeking inside the envelope for a hidden note until he realized this was everything apart from the sleek banknotes.

Not that he had really expected his mother to tell him a word of the person he still constantly thought about, but he was left feeling hollow nevertheless.

He prayed for a long time before settling to sleep. He didn’t reach the feeling that a sincere prayer often woke up in him, a sense of a channel being open from him to a greater being, of being listened to.

Maybe, he thought, God had given him enough in the sense of connection through the discussion he had had with Debbie Bale. Cristiano thanked Him for that.

 

 

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gareth's mom has a surprisingly big role in this but she just charmed her way in. I was about to write this dialogue, at least the part of giving Cristiano Gareth's back story, between Chris Coleman and Cristiano but it felt more natural that he'd talk about it in a domestic environment rather than head straight to the mayor's office on his first day.
> 
> I'm still a little uncertain about tagging some characters here. Gareth's Emma is of course modeled after Gareth's Emma, and I have had the former, deceased Wales NT manager Gary Speed in mind when I named the previous priest father Gary, but I don't know if it's that relevant. Maybe I'm just uncomfortable killing anybody... "Old Owain" was an exception because he was old.


	5. Gimme shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _War, children, it’s just a shot away_  
>  _It’s just a shot away_  
>  _I tell you love, sister, it’s just a kiss away_  
>  _Kiss away, kiss away_  
> 
> (The Rolling Stones: Gimme Shelter, Richards/Jagger 1969)
> 
> \--  
>    
> Mariano and Martin then, Gareth and Sergio now.

 

**Ciudad Trujillo, Dominican Republic, 1937**

 

A real football.

That’s Mariano’s first memory of sister Anna Theresa. The kind nun has blue eyes and she throws a real, round, inflated leather sphere in their game. Mariano runs immediately after the ball, takes it to his possession, protects it from all the other boys who are itching to touch it; it’s his until he has kicked it into the goal – that is, between two rocks on the closed street.

An angel.

That’s the second memory. When sister Anna Theresa has thrown the ball, he takes the hand on an angel that stands by her side. It must be an angel, Mariano doesn’t recall ever seeing anybody so light and fair and mild-faced anywhere but in church paintings.

But it’s not angel, it’s a little boy. He watches Mariano move the football with a close eye, jumps up and down when Mariano dribbles around the other boys and kicks the ball in the goal.

The nun says something to the boy in a foreign language and his blue eyes wander around from player to player; a shy, tentative look from under his blonde brows. His gaze stops on Mariano, looks pleadingly up to the nun who just nods at the boy, and back to Mariano.

“Want to play?” Mariano asks in spanish, nodding towards the ball the other boys are now kicking around on the dusty street.

“Si”, the boy answers in a quiet, shy voice. Mariano gestures him to come over but he is also worried: what if the boy can’t play, what if the others tease him and make fun of him, what if he gets trampled in other boys’ feet? He wants the fair foreign boy to have fun with them but he fears for his safety at the same time. He looks so fragile and demure, like a straw-haired porcelain doll that could break to pieces.

But no, the boy doesn’t break. He has fast feet and he knows his way with the ball. He manages to rob it from a much bigger boy and passes it to Mariano.

Mariano is relieved and a little proud, too. It was him, after all, who invited the boy to play and he has proven himself worthy.

The other boys start heading to their homes. They all live in a part of town that some people could describe as a slum, but for Mariano it’s his hoods, his home. It’s a bit like the street corners, wastelands and closed streets are more of a home for him than the actual house where he lives with his family.

_Family_. The word feels false. Half-family, rather. His mother is family but his mother’s man, the father of his younger siblings – he certainly makes him feel _not_ family, _not_ the big brother he thinks he should be able to be to his brothers and sisters.

He knows it’s partly due to the fact that he is a living proof that his mother has had a man before his stepfather. When Mariano was very little, time before his mother got hitched with the stepdad, she would sometimes tell how handsome and nice Mariano’s father, a Spanish sailor who went out to the sea before Mariano was even born, was, but she has not said a word about him in years. She doesn’t dare; it’s bad enough that Mariano exists.

Mariano feels it in his skin every day. Not as physical abuse, he thinks, stepdad doesn’t spank or kick him: he can push or shove him if he’s not quick enough to get out of his way or to do something useful.

What feels worse is the rejection like cold air around him. Secretly Mariano thinks he shouldn’t be made feel that way in his own home, like he is waste of space, like he doesn’t belong; he feels he’s worth more than that but at the same time he doubts it, like he’s not entitled to think that way. Like it’s too much for someone like him to ask.

 

He plays with the blond boy long until the short moment of dusk before the sudden tropical nightfall. He knows his stepdad will not sneer at him coming home at that hour; on the contrary, there will be a pleased smirk on his face, an expression that says _didn’t make it home to dinner table, boy, not my fault you’re going to bed hungry_.

The rejection like cold air and an empty stomach.

Sister Anna Theresa – she speaks Spanish and has introduced both herself and the angelic boy, Martin, to Mariano - asks if she can walk him home. “It’s getting dark, we will both be safer with each other’s company”, she says so tenderly and Mariano smiles at her. He lets her, shows her the house where he lives but doesn’t invite her in.

It’s like Mariano can for one time bathe in an adult’s positive attention. He doesn’t want sister Anna Theresa to see the cold air of rejection that surrounds him at home. If she sees it, she may think it’s the natural way to treat him, the only way he deserves.

He thinks tonight he will go to bed hungry but happy.

 

***

 

Gareth ruffled Sergio’s light brown hair once again. He enjoyed seeing another little cloud of dirt road dust puff in the air as half-dried sweat clung to his hand.

“400 miles on a motorcycle on a hot summer day. It shows”, he said, smiling. “I must draw you a bath.”

Sergio butted his head to Gareth’s hand, enjoyed the touch eyes closed. He sat in a wooden chair, sensed Gareth moving around him from his side to the back of his chair, fingers still in Sergio’s hair. Sergio tilted his face up to look at Gareth, smiled at him and reached up with his hands to draw him to a backwards hug. Gareth leaned down for the hug, rubbing his chin on Sergio’s shoulder, Sergio’s hands on the back of his neck.

He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the presence of the touchy Spaniard.

Sergio’s life sounded rough but that was nothing new. He had said goodbyes to his comfortable family home when he had left it to fight the right-wing forces that were, to his view, completely unlawfully and forcibly taking over his beloved country.

He had fought with all he had but ever since the last corners of the country had fallen under Franco’s power, he had been on the run. He had found a temporary home with the underground resistance groups in France but after the war he was no longer needed there, either.

Gareth took the hands hugging him in his own to take a look at them. He noticed Sergio had new tattoos on the back of his both hands.

His friend had a handsome, symmetric face, strong, fit body and the straightest and boldest posture he knew, but everything about him had a touch of wear and tear. His skin was weathered and seasoned by life’s many storms, scars from battles and fights covered it here and there.

During their first war experience Gareth had asked the story behind the symbols and words Sergio had tattooed to various places on his body.

“Each is a new life”, Sergio had answered. The fact that he had new ones told Gareth that his friend had had to escape death at least two times since he had last met him.

Whatever forces had kept him alive, Gareth was immeasurably grateful to. He sent a silent prayer up above when he stroked Sergio’s hands with his fingertips; silent, because he knew Sergio would say he needed no prayers on his behalf.

But there was something he would admit he needed. Some rest, some care, some company.

A hot bath, a proper meal, a soft pillow for his head. Maybe a big fat cigar and a couple of glasses of the best single malt scotch Gareth had stashed in his cupboard. Gareth was quite sure Sergio wouldn’t say no to any of those.

 

***

****

**Ciudad Trujillo, Dominican Republic, 1937**

 

Mariano opens the lockless door.

His home is completely dark, completely silent. “Hola?” he greets in a tentative voice; nobody answers.

As his eyes get accustomed to the darkness, he looks around the two small rooms they live in. Nobody, anywhere. The little coal-burning stove is warm to the hand but not hot, it’s been used some hours ago, the usual dinner time.

What is this? Is everybody visiting some neighbour without him? They never do that. Have they just gone away and left him behind?

He goes back out of the door, looks to his right and left on the alley. He hears a whispering voice trying to get his attention from the house next to theirs.

“Mariano, Mariano! Come over to the backyard”, whispers Marta from next door.

Mariano slips out of the door and tiptoes quickly around the corner to the backyard. Marta takes his hands between her own, swallows hard and looks Mariano in the eye.

“Listen. Trujillo’s police came around dinner time for your stepfather. And not just him. They took them all.” Mariano’s hands turn cold and the dark night air seems to go all misty and grey in his eyes. Marta squeezes his hands to regain his focus and continues. “They must know you live here too. You are in danger. If you have any place you can go, go there now. Don’t tell me where it is. I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Now go. God be with you.”

With that she is gone back in her house. Mariano is alone in the dark backyard.

He is all alone, anywhere. According to all he has heard about the iron-fisted leader of their country, his whole family – right now Mariano doesn’t even think them as half-family – may already be dead. If they are not, after a few days of interrogation and torture they will be.

He does what Marta told him to do. He runs back to the alley and continues running to the direction he saw the kind nun leaving before he entered his hollow home.

He runs through the darkness until he sees a glimpse of white far ahead. It’s the white rim of sister Anna Theresa’s scarf.

 

In a few days he is on a ship embarking on a journey about as far north as the Atlantic Ocean reaches. He doesn’t consider sister Anna Theresa his new mother, but Martin, with his golden straw hair, feels more like a little brother than his own half-brothers ever did.

Mariano whispers to Martin that he will always protect him from all evil.

Still, in the nighttime, when Mariano fears for his life because of the swell of the sea or the shadows in the dark corners, or misses his mother, or gets the sudden hollow feeling of being all alone in the world, he turns out to be the one needing protection. He slides down from his bunk to the one below it, next to his guardian angel, Martin.

There, hand in the other boy’s hand, he can sleep.

 

***

 

Sergio said no to none of those. As long as he had most of them immediately, preferably at the same time.

Gareth made Sergio a quick sandwich to cut off the edge of his hunger before he could get him freshened up from the sand, dust, sweat and mud he had gathered on the road.

He carried a couple of stools and one comfortable sturdy wooden chair to the bathroom because Sergio insisted on him sitting by his side when he was in the bathtub.

“Like hell I'll miss a minute with you”, he said and Gareth could think of no reason why Sergio should.

He watched the tattooed man slide down in the steaming, lavender-scented water, close his eyes and let out a sigh of pleasure. When Sergio was leaning there comfortably enough, his toes breaching the surface of the water on another end of the tub, Gareth cut and lit him a cigar. He poured scotch in two glasses on the stool he had placed by the tub near Sergio’s hand and gave one of them to him.

Gareth lifted his own glass and looked in Sergio’s close-set, brown eyes that were squinted from the relaxed smile on his face.

“To survival”, he said.

“To you”, Sergio mouthed silently from behind his raised glass.

 

Gareth moved his chair to the head of the tub and washed Sergio’s hair. Not because Sergio asked, he did not; he just felt an overpowering need to make sure that Sergio didn’t need to raise a finger if he could do it for him.

Sergio let him massage his scalp and his shoulders that were strained and hard as sacks full of rocks from the strenuous ride on the narrow hill roads.

“I want to marry you. I should be allowed to”, he said to Gareth later at the table, over a late dinner of cold leg of lamb, Gareth’s mother’s mint sauce and fresh green beans from the rectory’s kitchen garden.

Gareth laughed softly. “I thought you don’t believe in marriage. Or other sacraments”, he said.

“I believe in love”, Sergio answered.

Gareth wished he knew what to say to that. He filled Sergio’s glass.

“Strawberries?” he suggested.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Oh Gareth! Did you just make a big mistake? What do you think?
> 
> 2\. This story is getting a recurring theme I didn't mean to write in there at all. But seems that wherever I decide to take my characters, after some research I find myself facing another dictator or fascist regime. Seems it was a sad epidemic in the 1930's and I'm not always quite that sure that we're living better times in history right now.
> 
> 3\. Gareth and Sergio will continue their conversation in the next chapter. And father Cristiano will appear again, of course.
> 
> 4\. The short marriage discussion in the end is, of course, joking; the thought of an actual gay marriage would be a total anachronism even in the most liberal circles. It's more like Sergio saying Gareth would make a good wife because he takes such good care of him.


	6. Porta Coeli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven”._ (Matthew 19:14)  
>  
> 
> Father Cristiano finally sees his church.

  

 

“Do you still have El Blanco?” Sergio asked Gareth in the morning.

“Of course”, Gareth answered, looking sincerely in Sergio’s eyes. “I would never give it up.”

They laid on Gareth’s bed because Sergio had been consistent with his claim to stay near Gareth as long as he could. Which led to them sleeping side by side.

It was convenient because they had fallen asleep mid-sentence in their bilingual conversation and could pick it up again as soon as they woke up.

“We could go riding later today. You would get to meet him again”, Gareth said. A wide smile emerged on Sergio’s face and he extended his hand to rub Gareth’s hair and cheek. “You’re so good to me”, he said.

The stallion had been one of his favourite horses but he had wanted to give it to Gareth because he felt he owed his life to him, perhaps even more.

Sergio had never spoken to Gareth about his reasons but he could trace the beginning of their deeply trusting friendship to one particular day.

 

Sergio hadn’t thought very highly of the international volunteers that participated in the battles in his country. He never spoke it out loud, of course not; in principal he appreciated and respected the support, the incredible gift they were giving, ready to give their only lives for their cause.

But as soldiers, as fighters, many of them gave him a kind of an irritating itch. Some of them were artists or scholars who were not used to long marches along the steep hills, sleeping uncomfortably outdoors or hunting and gathering their food. Some were not even very good in the basic fighting skills such as shooting.

When a new unit of internationals was brought to join his small Spanish squad as supplementary men he and his companions had their prejudices about them. The newcomers sensed it and a tension was there from day one, dividing the squad in two groups eyeing cautiously at each other.

Sergio knew that it was up to their captain, Casillas, to try and break the tension, or to himself, as the second in rank, but Iker chose to try and overlook the whole situation, just concentrate on the reason they were there, fighting. There was little Sergio could do over him. Or moreover, there was nothing he _would_ do over him; Captain Iker Casillas was the sun that lit up and gave life to his world.

The situation with the new internationals was as harmful as it was awkward. It was harmful because the newcomers weren’t that bad. They were in fact resourceful, rugged country people, hard-bodied workers from mines and sheep farms in some far rural corner of Great Britain. They had come in with their own trusted hunting rifles, frequently used and well cared for.

They were not the kind of people to be looked down on, and when they inevitably sensed they were, they grew suspicious towards their Spanish fellow fighters.

 

That specific day Iker had called Sergio to accompany him to check the traps they had set in the woods near their camp for grouse or rabbits.

The internationals wanted to make sure they wouldn’t conceal a part of the catch; they suspected the Spaniards would deal the food unevenly favouring their countrymen. Gareth was chosen to follow and spy on the two huntsmen.

It was a lucky day: two hazelhens were trapped on their path in various parts of the forest. But that was only a nice prelude to Sergio’s favourite part of the walk; the one that he had already anticipated from the looks Iker was giving him, the one that he knew would eventually come around.

Iker stopped him in a nice, secluded part of the woods. There was an old oak tree, thick trunk, sturdy branches from the height of their heads upwards. Yellow sun shone warm on its bark.

Iker took the birds gently out of Sergio’s hand and laid them on the ground on the shadowed side of the tree. He took Sergio’s rifle from his back and set it on the ground, leaning on the tree, his own next to it. He ran his large, surprisingly soft-skinned hands down Sergio’s arms, slowly, until he reached his wrists; he grabbed them and lifted them above his head, at the same time slowly but surely pressing Sergio with his body leaning to the trunk of the oak, the warmth of the sun on the coarse bark against Sergio’s back.

Iker’s knee dug in between Sergio’s legs, corkscrewing his hips to give Iker closer access between his thighs. He kept his hands on his young sergeant’s wrists, caressing the pulse points with his thumbs, lacing his fingers with Sergio’s.

“Sergio… oh, Sergio. How I have missed this”, he panted and leaned in to kiss him, hard, the bark of the tree scratching and pressing the back of Sergio’s head.

Iker let go of Sergio’s hands and Sergio did what he knew he was supposed to, groped around to reach for a branch conveniently over his head and grasped it with his hands. Captain Casillas loved his sergeant like that, submissive and soft, open to his touches. He let his hands slide down Sergio’s hard, muscled sides to the waist of his trousers, dug the hem of his shirt out and slid his hands underneath. Fiercely kissing Sergio’s lips he traced each muscle on his flat stomach with his fingers, right up to his nipples, pinching and twisting them.

Sergio moaned right into his mouth, arching his back to welcome the touch.

 

Gareth had not expected to see anything like this. But it was not the only unexpected occurrence he witnessed.

He raised his rifle to his eye and waited patiently for the right moment.

 

“Hands up, faggots. I mean you, your comrade already has his.”

Iker turned to the voice and found himself at gunpoint. There were two nationalist soldiers, both pointing their weapons at them.

“Looks like we’re getting two prisoners”, one said to the other.

The other one opened his mouth to answer but a split second later there was no mouth; red splatter of blood bursted out of where it used to be, a ragged hole torn in the face instead. Sound of the gunshot reached their ears at the same moment. The other soldier didn’t have time to react before he collapsed too, a bloody hole through his throat.

Sergio and Iker turned shocked to see the direction from where the gunshots had been fired. A tall, lean figure emerged from behind a bush and started walking towards them.

It was one of the youngest internationals; shaking Sergio was ashamed he hadn’t even learned his name.

“Quite a shot”, Iker said when the young man reached them.

“Thanks, captain”, he replied.

“No, no!” Sergio and Iker stopped him, talking in unison. “Thank _you._ You… you saved us. Not just us. They could have found the rest of you.”

“I did what I had to do”, the young man said as if he didn’t quite know how he felt about his accomplishment. “If I can shoot rabbits, I can shoot fascists.”

 

That event turned things around a great deal.

It resolved the tension in the group, unified the mainly Welsh internationals with the remaining original Spaniards.

Sergio learned Gareth’s name. Gareth learned Sergio’s. He had called Ramos _Serg_ , thinking he had been given a nickname as a shortened version of sergeant, because, well, he was a sergeant; this became a story that Sergio later on insisted Gareth to tell every time they met new people.

Most importantly, it built a lasting foundation for Gareth’s friendship to his two Spanish fellow fighters. Sergio could tell Gareth never in any way implied to the circumstances he had found them in; if he had, he could have read it from the eyes or gossipy whispers in the group, but there never was anything to indicate they knew something.

He knew he could trust Gareth with his life. And with that, he did not only in the mean survival; he knew he could trust him with anything that was important in his life.

 

***

 

Father Cristiano strolled slowly back and forth on the green grass of the churchyard when he saw Bale and Ramos coming round the corner.

“Good morning, father! Did you sleep well?” Gareth greeted him joyfully.

“Good morning. Thank you, yes. I hope you had a good night, too”, the priest answered.

“The best”, Gareth said. He slapped Sergio’s back lightly as Sergio parted from him and walked towards the rhododendron bushes near the stone fence of the churchyard.

Gareth and Cristiano watched him lifting a dusty motorcycle up from the shadow of the bush.

“I ran out of petrol as soon as I got to the village, all the stations I tried to buy it from were out of stock”, he explained. “Do you have any idea where I could get some?”

Gareth scratched his head.

“I know some houses that have farm tanks but most of them store diesel, I think. But I’ll ask around”, he said.

“Thanks. I’ll push this to your place. See you later, Gareth. Goodbye, father”, Sergio said.

 

Gareth pulled the heavy wooden door open for father Cristiano. They went through the small vestibule and crossed themselves with holy water entering the church.

Father Cristiano enjoyed the familiar feeling of a place of worship: subtly coloured dots of light on the floor, cast through stained glass windows; cool air provided by the thick stone walls; faint scents in the air: dust, stone, wood polish, candle wax and incense. Looking at the stone altar and wooden carved crucifix above it made him feel at home.

He absorbed the atmosphere pacing peacefully around the nave, grazing the polished, worn wood of the pews with his fingers. He touched the dark wall of the confessional and a sudden shiver jolted through his being. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Bale had noticed it and caught his eyes.

Father Cristiano pondered if he should say something but didn’t; he let his hand brush along the carving on the corner of the confessional, smiled lightly at Bale, turned away and continued his slow walk along the wall.

A colourful painting near the baptismal font caught the priest’s eye and he stopped before the large oil canvas. It was a scene of Jesus blessing little children.

The picture looked magically vivid, very lively and dynamic for a piece of religious art. Along with the children gathered around Jesus it depicted angels, probably as a reminder of the kingdom of heaven; the beautiful winged creatures flew around against the blue sky and the blossoming meadow. Father Cristiano admired the scene with awe: the children looked life-like, their faces bursting in laughter and smiles of happiness, and every angel seemed to be in a moment of dynamic movement: running, jumping or turning in mid-air.

“It’s an Owain Fôn Williams.” Father Cristiano turned to Bale, who he hadn’t noticed coming near his shoulder. “I’ve been told he used to sketch it in the Sunday school and on the side of a football field, and later asked some of the players to his atelier to model for a more precise work.”

Father Cristiano was surprised. “This is a contemporary work, then?”

Bale touched lightly the frame of the painting. “Old Owain painted this when he was very young, in his twenties or thirties, before the turn of the century, I think. I wasn’t even born yet.”

“Is this the same Fôn Williams who lived in your cottage? Your mother mentioned the name.”

Bale nodded. “Yes, him. A great man. He was blessed to live long and die peacefully.”

Father Cristiano couldn’t take his eyes off the artwork. He let his gaze wander around the picture but it returned again and again to the same spot, the most vivacious one of the angels.

The angel was a young man who looked to be running diagonally away from the spectator but looked over his shoulder smiling widely. Its anatomy was painted very precisely and accurately: the twist of the torso, round buttocks, partly covered by one of the white curving wings, strong thighs and legs.

The thick, muscled thighs were the most prominent feature of its body, but even they were easily shadowed by the luminance of the smiling, angelic face. The wide grin made the angel’s upper lip curve very close to its beautiful nose in a way that gave the face a very boyish look; brown eyes were squinted like crescent moons under the convex eyelids from the smile but twinkled nevertheless from between high cheekbones and evenly curving brows.

“Looking at angel sweetface?” Bale asked father Cristiano in an amused voice.

“Pardon?” Cristiano was woken as if from a dream.

“Angel Sweetface, all the girls called it with that name, they always said it was the most beautiful thing in the church when I was at school”, Bale said, pointing the angel in the painting. He chuckled. “Looks a bit like my old schoolmate James, could have been his grandfather of uncle modeling for it. The girls teased him about it, too, they’d chant “Angel Sweetface” whenever he was playing in school games.”

“School games?”

“Yes, he was a couple years younger but we played in the same football team, both school and the team of the neighbour town. Father Gary urged us to try out for bigger youth teams, even national, he knew some people in the football association and said we were talented and could have had a shot for it, but… it wasn’t my thing”, Bale said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Why not?” father Cristiano wanted to know. He had thought Bale would be one to be up for a challenge like that.

“I felt I was needed here more, wanted to help out at home and in the church I guess”, he answered. “I just kept playing for fun.”

Father Cristiano felt a wave of sympathy wash through him for the dutiful, loyal man next to him.

“So, I gather you really liked to play, then.”

A deeply joyous smile slowly lit up the younger man’s face, an expression as happy as the one father Cristiano had seen on his face only once before, the previous day when Bale had met Sergio Ramos.

“Oh yes”, he said. “Did it all the time.”

Father Cristiano smiled at him. “I know the feeling. Me too. Maybe we should try it some day. To see if we’re grown too old.”

“I’ll see you to that”, Gareth said.

"Your teammate James, has he gone on playing football?" Cristiano asked.

Gareth shook his head with a sad look on his face. "He's out there", he nodded to the direction of his shoulder and after a moment of confusion father Cristiano understood he was pointing at the direction of the graveyard, the section of soldier's graves. "Fell in his first battle."

 

Something kept bothering Gareth on the back of his mind. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it at first, but it occurred to him after he had gone through the rest of the church with father Cristiano.

“Excuse me for saying this, father, but I felt you gave me a funny look earlier when you were by the confessional”, he said.

Cristiano remembered the rush of emotion and his sudden shiver and quickly tried to form an explanation.

“I just came to think… if it’s a long time since your last confession, since you have not had a permanent priest here. In case there is something…”

They were interrupted by the opening of the heavy church door. Sergio Ramos peeked inside but pulled back as he noticed the men were still in the middle of a conversation.

Father Cristiano turned his eyes back to Bale as the door closed again. Gareth felt his gaze to be deep with unsaid accusations.

“…something you want to talk about.”

 

***

 

“I think our priest thinks we’re fucking”, Gareth said to Sergio when they were walking towards the stables.

Sergio let out a bellowing laughter. “Men of church and their dirty minds. I would rather ask what is the reason his mother is bribing the church to get him a job”, he said.

He put his hand on the small of Gareth’s back and rubbed it. “I don’t understand what would be wrong about it, anyway. I think I have loved you in every other possible way. What’s the difference?”

Gareth was not sure if he got everything right but the real reason he didn’t answer Sergio anything was that he was unsure of his feelings. A great part of him agreed with what Sergio had said, but another part hindered him from wanting to talk about it any longer.

Maybe it was the overall concept of love; having hidden his hurt so deep, it was not something to start digging out again easily.

 

***

 

Father Cristiano was glad it wasn’t already widely known that he had arrived. He gladly started his first daytime prayer in an empty church by himself and didn’t really mind that Bale had left without joining him.

He stayed in the church after his last Amen, looking at the painting by the baptismal font, a silent prayer forming deep inside his heart.

_Shelter me under thy wings. Come to my help in my struggle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said earlier, I'm not catholic and English is not my native language. Any help correcting my terms concerning the church is appreciated. As is any other feedback, naturally:)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	7. Angelus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for in doing so, some have entertained angels without knowing it._ (Hebrews 13:2)  
>  _The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly._ (John 10:10)  
>  _And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us._ (John 1:14)  
> 

 

Father Cristiano went back to the rectory for lunch. He had unpacked his choir dress from the luggage trunk to hang it in an empty closet in sacristy. He had noticed that there were cassocks and surplices for altar servants, as well as a surplice for a priest, but he preferred to use his own, which had a rich trimming of hand-made Portuguese lace.

“Do you think Martin and Mariano could come to pray Angelus with me in the evening? We could rehearse for the Mass at the same time, they could help me find everything I need and tell if there’s something special I should know”, he asked Debbie when she came to collect the dishes.

“Of course, that sounds reasonable. I’m sure they have time”, Debbie answered and promised to send the boys to the church on time.

Father Cristiano felt a sting of guilt from easing himself in his work so slowly. He felt he had sneaked in the church with Bale like a thief, not making it known to people of the village that their church would now be properly available for them to come and pray. He worded his worry to Debbie.

“Don’t worry! I’m certain nobody expected that. You just arrived yesterday! You need to prepare yourself first, then you can start to help people serve God. If you wish, I’ll ask the boys to bring the announcement sign by the church gate up to date; I’m afraid it’s been emptied out completely after the last short-term substitute left”, she said.

It eased Cristiano’s mind. He clapped a little drum drill on the table with his hands. “That helped a lot, Debbie. Thank you. Welcome to celebrate the Holy Mass tomorrow morning”, he said, flashing a happy smile.

“It’s not easy for you”, Debbie said. “To come to a place that has fallen out of its routines, try to find them, form new ones. You haven’t been in a parish where you work alone, have you?”

“No.”

“You’ll do all right.”

It was funny, Cristiano thought; he figured he was supposed to be the father here, the one with the answers, the one offering consolation. But here he was and it felt like he was begging and getting constant spiritual pats on his head from one mama Bale.

 

***

 

Sergio greeted the white horse like an old friend. He let it sniff himself with the fluttering nostrils of its soft muzzle and rubbed it under its mane on its neck and forehead. It was uncertain if El Blanco actually recognized its former owner or if it just submitted itself to Sergio's skilled horseman's touch, but it seemed as pleased of the meeting as Sergio.

Gareth was convinced it was the former. "I think he remembers you", he said smiling as the horse butted its nose to Sergio's hand.

"Good boy", Sergio mumbled close to the horse's cheek.

 

Gareth had been curious about their brothers in arms since the previous evening but had hesitated to ask about them in fear of sad news, wanting to keep the atmosphere light and easy. He decided to approach the subject when they were fetching the saddles and bridles from the saddle room of the stable.

“Do you know about the other boys, what are they up to now? What’s happened after I left?” Gareth asked.

Sergio told him that the group had been together only for a couple of months after Gareth had been transferred to his British unit; they had dispersed to their separate ways after one final severe battle around April.

“Did everybody get through it alright? The Zidanes?” Gareth hoped their leader and his son had survived. He could picture the father’s anguish when his young son was so passionate to participate fighting the Nazis that he had had to let him come with him to work with the resistance; otherwise the boy would only have run away from home and joined some other unit.

“They’re both good, Zizou went back to his job as a teacher, Enzo is pursuing a career in the French army.”

“The other French boys?”

“Benzema got bullets in his leg and foot, we got him in military hospital but I don’t know what harm he had suffered and how long he was there. Rapha and Griezmann went back to their home towns.”

Gareth knew who had to be next and feared for the worst. “Casillas?” he asked warily, keeping a close eye on Sergio’s reaction.

Before the other man even opened his mouth to answer Gareth hoped he hadn’t said a word, seeing the pain wash over Sergio’s face. “Oh, Sergio”, he sighed.

“No”, Sergio said, voice muffled with anxiety. “I don’t know. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if Iker is dead or alive.”

The words punched Gareth hard, he felt Sergio’s hurt and anguish in his body. He leaned his hand on Sergio’s back, rubbed it through the plaid flannel shirt he had borrowed him. “What happened, Sergio? Can you tell me?”

Sergio turned his face upwards, took a deep breath and blew the air slowly out between his lips.

“It was the last battle. He was left on the field under heavy fire. I wanted to go for him but the others dragged me to safety. When the enemy had retreated I went to look for him. I expected to find his body, or in the best case, find him wounded. But nothing. We all checked the area, combed it through but no. It was the last I saw him.”

“I’m so sorry. And you… you haven’t heard anything?”

“No… I tried everything. I stayed on the area for weeks looking for him and asking around. I have enquired about the released prisoners of war, contacted everybody I know might know something about him. I even sneaked through the border to Spain to check if he had been seen in his home town but… no.” He hung his head down and shook it wearily. “If I just knew.”

Gareth put the saddle on his arm over a fence and drew Sergio to a close hug. He felt Sergio’s beard on the skin of his neck, the rolled fabric of his sleeves and the bare forearm across his back. “I’m so sorry, Sergio. It’s terrible to hear”, he said.

“It is terrible”, Sergio admitted, pulled slowly away from the hug, lifted the other saddle back up and placed it on El Blanco’s back. “And I’m sorry to have to tell you this. He was your friend, too. He _is_. I… I don’t know.” Sergio threw his hands aimlessly in the air.

“No, Sergio. Thank you for telling me. If there is anything I can do, just ask, please.” Gareth started saddling the other horse, his mare Del.

Sergio grabbed his hand and pulled him close. He kept one hand on top of Gareth’s and brushed his cheek with the back of the fingers of his other hand. He looked him in the eye. “Just be there for me”, he said and pecked Gareth’s lips.

Gareth couldn’t help himself. He twitched back, startled. Sergio looked offended.

“What’s wrong with you, Gareth? Don’t you like me?”

“Sorry, I… God, Sergio, no, I like you, you don’t know how… how much you mean to me. How I feel close to you. It’s not you. It’s… you wouldn’t understand, it’s different for you.” Gareth was desperately fumbling with his words, how could he explain it? That voice inside him, on the back of his mind, reminding him how much he had sinned already in his life, how hard he needed to fight not to stray further away from the chance of ever being holy again?

But Sergio grasped it, without Gareth uttering a word. ”I don’t understand your God. You can kill but you can’t kiss”, Sergio blurted at him.

“I’m sorry. It’s hard to get over… what I have been brought up to believe”, Gareth said quietly, looking down on the ground.

Sergio walked to the other side of the horse, channeling his frustration to the determined moves around the stallion. He tightened the saddle belt and made sure all the buckles on the bridle were attached.

“All my life I have fought for one cause. Freedom. I have been ready to die for it. I have killed for it. You have been ready to die for it. I have seen it. You have been fighting there with me. For years.” Sergio’s face was tight, his dark brown eyes looked straight ahead as he rubbed El Blanco’s white neck under its mane.

“Do you know what’s the hardest, Gareth? It’s not fighting the enemy. We can take down oppressors. We can tear their armies apart. But what about people’s minds? They have to do it themselves. The hardest part is to see all our fight, all that blood, go to waste when people refuse to be free. Because it’s easier to live tied by the shackles of their own mind. Because they are afraid. Afraid to be free because it means thinking for themselves and taking responsibility for their own actions.”

Sergio cleared his throat and shook his head. “And of all the people it’s you who is one of them. You, Gareth, the bravest and most selfless fighter I have had by my side.”

Gareth had witnessed Sergio stand furiously and adamantly for his cause many times, not being afraid to speak his mind as fierily as possible. But he thought this was the first time he had heard him speak so long from the bottom of his heart, and certainly this was the first time all that fire was aimed straight at Gareth.

Gareth’s cheeks were burning. He kept his hands on El Blanco’s neck to keep them from shaking. He sensed Sergio leaning his hands on the horse’s strong neck on the other side. Sergio was silent; Gareth peeked warily over the horse and saw his friend lean his forehead on the horse’s mane between his hands like he was exhausted from his speech, from pouring his heart and mind.

How could Gareth have been such a coward with the presence of such bravery? How could he have let Sergio take all those steps towards him, never lifting a finger or moving one foot to meet him, if not in the middle, then even an inch that way? Wasn’t that the greatest sin, to be so indifferent and cold towards someone he owed his life to – towards such love?

_My dear Jesus, I would rather die than offend Thee._

It was time to face the enemy. Time to fight the most frightening battle of his life: his own inhibitions and insecurities.

_Jesus and Mary, help me._

Familiar words that he had almost forgotten flashed in his mind.

_I came that you might have life and have it abundantly._

From where, Gareth didn’t know, but he embraced their spirit.

Gareth ducked down and stepped under the muzzle of the horse to the other side. He gently placed his hand on the back of Sergio’s head, let it slide down the back of his neck to his shoulder and softly but firmly turned Sergio by his shoulder to face him.

Gareth took Sergio’s bearded face between his large, dexterous hands, looked deep in his brown eyes, leaned close and kissed him.

Sergio’s lips were chapped from the winds of the world. His mouth answered Gareth’s kiss so generously, like undeserved forgiveness; it was moist and warm and it had a faint taste of coffee and yesterday’s whiskey. It felt like home and adventure at the same time and Gareth couldn’t understand why he had denied this from himself for so long.

 

***

 

” _Angelus Dómini nuntiávit Maríae_ ”, father Cristiano recited.

” _Et concépit de Spíritu Sancto_ ”, Martin and Mariano continued in unison, voices not fumbling even slightly; they were very good, just like Debbie had said, Cristiano noted.

The boys had arrived on time, drawn their black cassocks and white surplices over their normal clothes and rung the Angelus bell on father Cristiano’s request.

Mariano was glad he had a secret language with Martin.

“The church is going to be full on Sundays when the people have seen him walking around for a couple of days. Look at him – I mean, how can he even be a priest? He is so good-looking. I’m happy he is a priest, though, he’s cute in those clothes”, he whispered to Martin in Norwegian after the prayer was over.

Martin pouted at him. “Now you’re making me jealous.”

Mariano pulled him on a side-hug and gave a light kiss on his cheek. “No need to, my angel. Nobody is like you, you know it.”

 

Father Cristiano saw the boys from the corner of his eye. His initial reaction was warm amusement that made him chuckle; their playful cuddling reminded him of himself younger. Almost until his seminary years he had tried to steal kisses from his boyhood crushes or tickle them to make them laugh when the teachers, priests, brothers or deacons were looking elsewhere.

Sometimes he wondered how he had gotten away with it, how his call and devotion had been assessed strong enough for him to enter the studies to become a priest, but he was grateful for it. Part of him believed that managing to do that had to do with starting seminary away from home, in an unfamiliar environment where he was forced to concentrate on his studies.

He hadn’t really found a strong bond to most of his fellow seminarians. Spanish and church Latin were not difficult languages for a Portuguese, but something he couldn’t quite put his finger on made him often feel isolated, disconnected, lonely. And because in the start there was an odd number of students, he ended up in a dorm room by himself, the neighbouring empty bed emphasizing his loneliness, separation from the crowd.

All that changed in the middle of the first semester.

That day, Cristiano was approaching his dorm room when he heard a string of Portuguese words mumbled inside. He didn’t recognize the voice so it couldn’t be anybody visiting him from back home, and the accent sounded Brazilian.

“Both these beds are made so neat, which one is empty? If I put my stuff on somebody else’s bed, I’m off to no good start. Sweet Jesus, this is too small a thing to ask and not choose for myself but I need friends”, the voice rambled and Cristiano could hardly push down his will to giggle. The talker had a friendly tone to his voice and his worry over the impression he would make on his fellow students made Cristiano feel a wave of sympathy towards him.

He hoped the stranger, who was apparently going to be his roommate, would have a sense of humour and there was only one way to test it.

Cristiano heard a muted thud when something was placed on a bed inside. He tiptoed his way around the half opened door to see a back turned to him, halted in the middle of the room and shouted on the top of his lungs in the angriest Spanish he could: “Who are you and what are you doing on my bed?”

The tall, brown-haired boy jumped up scared, lost his balance and had to lean his hand on the bed.

Cristiano burst in laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, he repeated in Portuguese. “You are on the free bed and I wouldn’t have minded the other way, either”, he convinced and placed his hand on the other boy’s shoulder to give it a soothing rub. He extended his hand to greet the newcomer. “Nice to meet you and welcome. I’m Cristiano and I’m delighted to have a roommate. And I’m sorry I startled you.”

“Ricardo”, the other boy answered, a warm smile revealing an even row of white teeth and lighting a friendly twinkle in his brown eyes. “Happy to meet you, Cristiano.”

 

Ricardo became a true friend. Cristiano believed that without Ricky keeping them out of the trouble he wouldn’t have got any studies done in time, and without Cristiano getting them _in_ trouble Ricky’s seminary years would have been really boring. Ricky covered for Cristiano when he sneaked out to explore Madrid nightlife and sometimes agreed to accompany him, which was always a delight, and gently scolded him when he thought Cristiano’s adventures with girls had gone too far for a future priest.

His Brazilian friend managed to voice Cristiano’s conscience in a way that sometimes made Cristiano wonder how he would ever do without him in real world. It was clear from the very beginning that they would become very different priests, if Cristiano ever made it to the ordination.

Cristiano dazzled and inspired people, he could preach wonderful, entertaining homilies and make people leave the church invigorated and cheered up; Ricardo had a talent for listening in a way people felt themselves heard, he was good at offering consolation to people in despair, making them search for solutions in their life’s problems and finding ways to help the surrounding community at a grassroots level.

Ricky let Cristiano kiss him once. Without a word he made it seem like an act of mercy, his dark eyes saying afterwards _you see it yourself now, it wasn’t what you wanted it to be, was it?_

It never broke their friendship, but the incident contributed to Cristiano’s willingness to search for other options to finish his studies; try out a new kind of independence, in some sense.

 

The memories made Cristiano once again question himself. He didn’t like the sense of weakness that wavered in his chest since last year like a cold, flickering flame. He loved his work, he loved the church, he always had, but at moments like these he felt lost.

If he was more like Ricky – father Ricardo, these days – he would have known immediately how to guide his altar servants to remember the correct, respectful and chaste manner they would have to conduct themselves in a holy place, with or without the congregation; he would have done it with one gentle frown, perhaps a shake of his head, followed by a reassuring smile.

But for Cristiano, the moment was already over; the boys had hung their altar clothes in the sacristy and fled to their other duties, that were many on a farm in summertime.

He stopped by the spot that had become his favourite one in the church, between the baptismal font and the Fôn Williams painting. He genuflected, looked at the angel in the picture, and a wordless prayer, one of pure emotion, formed inside his heart.

As he went to the sacristy to hang his surplice on its place, shaking gently any wrinkles out of its wide lace ornaments, he felt the flickering flame of self-doubt stop still and slowly grow warmer in his chest.

 

Sun was setting; as father Cristiano turned off the lights from the church and the sacristy by the switches close to the sacristy door, the air was already murky.

He was almost stepping straight outside through the door of the sacristy but decided to turn around; he wanted to walk through the church nave, feel the weight of the heavy wooden doors on his way out.

As soon as he entered the sanctuary he noticed a faint glow on the side of the nave. He was absolutely sure he hadn’t heard anybody coming in, but a light figure stood behind the baptismal font, hands touching its marble edge.

Cristiano approached it with slow, wary steps. As his eyes accustomed to the dim lighting, he started to doubt if they really served him correctly. But when the character lifted his eyes to meet Cristiano’s gaze and a wide, familiar smile spread across its beautiful, boyish face, the priest recognized it without a doubt.

_Angel Sweetface_ , Bale’s words rang in his ears. The angel from the church painting stood on the slate floor; its flesh had a slowly fading barely-there glow that seemed to shine from within.

It was as nude as in the picture, white large wings curving towards the floor half spread behind its shoulders.

And its – _his,_ Cristiano corrected in his mind, because it was definitely clear that the angel was a he – frontside was just as anatomically accurate as the back that had been seen in the artwork.

He wasn’t only lifelike. He was alive; he pouted his lips, tilted his head towards his shoulder, looked coyly at father Cristiano and extended his hand towards him. Cristiano approached him and touched tentatively the fingertips. They were warm and the priest’s touch drew a wide, toothy smile back on the – literally - angelic face.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was chapter 7 and NOW we're getting to the things that made me start writing this.
> 
> Yeah, I have a thing for religious imagery, such as cute priests and sexy angels and... if the thought makes you uncomfortable, maybe you'll stop reading here. Or continue but be warned.
> 
> Either case, thank you for reading and please leave a note!


	8. Caritas petient est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gareth and Sergio go riding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all you impatient Angel James fans, this chapter turned out all Gareth/Sergio. Next update will be about Cristiano/James and I think I'll come up with it quite shortly because I can't wait either.

 

Gareth and Sergio rode north, up to a ridge overlooking the sea shore. The humid air carried the scent of salt and seaweed to their faces; the horizon was a golden streak out west where the sun was already shining low, getting ready to settle down.

They admired the view and looked at one another, happy and content, nice warmth in their muscles after the ride through a green valley.

They continued along a path on the ridge to a place where the slope was gentle enough to form a forking path down to the waterfront. The horses walked down on an easy pace and there was not much use for talking, the wind from the sea along with the rising tide was sure to sweep away any words that were not shouted.

Gareth directed Del to the shore and prodded the mare up to a gallop on the waterfront, Sergio following suit on El Blanco; hoofs splashed cold salt water of the Irish Sea on the riders’ boots and legs, an occasional drop landing on their shirts and faces, even hair.

Gareth didn’t remember when he had last felt so carefree and alive but soon gave up thinking back; it was futile and wouldn’t bring anything more to the moment. He felt the warmth of exercise in his muscles, the humid breeze in his hair and on his face, the horse’s flanks moving between his calves; he heard the sound of the other horse galloping, soon reaching his side and caught the sight of Sergio’s face turning his way with a wide grin on his lips as they continued riding abreast in the shallow water.

Gareth nodded sideways to Sergio to indicate a turn to the shore and they drew up the horses on a beach that was a short, narrow stretch of smooth pebbles and fine sand between two cliffs that pushed in the water.

They left the horses on the meadow behind the sandy beach to graze on reeds and sedges. Gareth sat on the sand, took off his boots and socks, rolled his trousers up to his knees and dug his toes in the sand; it was sundried only on the very surface, cool and damp underneath, and clung to his feet. Sergio followed his example but jumped back up when he realized how damp the sand was.

“I’m not going to ride back with my ass all wet”, he exclaimed, brushing the sand off the back of his trousers.

“Pussy”, Gareth muttered but grinned widely, gave his hand and let Sergio help him up.

Gareth didn’t let the hand go; he laced their fingers together and pulled Sergio along to wade in to the water. He stopped when they were calf deep, searched for Sergio’s other hand and pulled him close. He looked him in the eye, let his gaze slowly wander across his face and leaned in to brush Sergio’s lips lightly with his own, enjoying the shiver of anticipation it sent down his spine.

He pressed his lips softly closer and slowly deepened the kiss; he moved his hands up Sergio’s inked forearms over his elbows and as long along the biceps he could push the rolled sleeves before they got too tight to go further up.

Their tongues touched, the soft-rough surfaces squirming together felt hot and electrifying. When Sergio sucked Gareth’s lower lip in his mouth, his moustache tickled his upper lip and Gareth liked the way it made blood rush through his body.

Sergio’s hands made a tight glide down Gareth's sides, hot and strong through the fabric of his old work shirt, worn thin and soft from years of wear. Gareth responded to the touch arching his hip to the side, creating a curve on his waistline, welcoming the way Sergio’s hand followed it and grabbed the arch of his hipbone. He drew his hands out from under Sergio’s sleeves and slid them over his shoulders to the back of his neck to hug the man he was kissing in a tight embrace.

He knew he wanted this; he was not ashamed or afraid to want this. Everything about Sergio was familiar but felt new to his senses: the taste of sea salt on the curve of his lip where the splashed water had dried out, the faint scent of horses that had caught on his borrowed flannel shirt, the pleased low groan when Gareth pressed his fingertips in the furrow on the nape of his neck, rubbing hard the short hair just beneath his skull.

Sergio pulled away from the kiss, lips dark red and softened by the touch. He leaned his forehead on Gareth’s, smiling his wide grin. “Oh Gareth”, he whispered right to his face, his dark brown eyes twinkling with sheer happiness. "This is so good but my feet are fucking freezing off.”

Gareth laughed softly against Sergio’s cheek, kept his arm on his shoulder and turned them back to the shore. “Oh Spanish boy”, he said. “I’ll get you warmed up.”

“Don’t you boy me”, Sergio answered. “I still outrank you.”

“This is not the army, Sergio.”

“Good.”

Gareth couldn’t have agreed more.

Sergio found a nice flat rock on the base of the cliff on the edge of the beach. The afternoon rays of the sun had warmed its smooth surface and he stretched himself on it, leaning his back to the cliff like it was the backrest of a deck chair.

“Beach boy”, Gareth said dreamily, sat down by Sergio's feet legs crossed and took his feet in his lap, rubbing them vigorously with his hands.

“You’re boying me again, Gareth.”

“Yes I am. And I’m getting blood back in your poor Spanish feet.”

Sergio chuckled to that and hummed a slow rhythmic tune in a voice that emitted quiet satisfaction.

 

The tide was high and the sun was soon sinking below the western cliff, casting a long shadow almost to the whole stretch of the small beach.

“Ready to get riding again? We’d better start heading back if we wish to be there before it gets dark”, Gareth said.

Sergio pulled his socks and boots reluctantly back on. They rode back through the meadow, long reed and grass wiping the horses’ bellies. The wind had calmed down, air was very quiet except for some far away cries of seagulls and twittering of a sedge warbler.

“Sergio…” Gareth started tentatively, “I think you noticed there were studs missing from El Blanco’s saddle.”

Sergio had paid attention to that saddling the horse but had no intention to mention it; he had gifted the horse to Gareth with that particular saddle for a reason and it never had crossed his mind to hold Gareth accountable for how he used it.

“It is yours, Gareth. Yours to use.”

Gareth nodded gratefully.

“I never thanked you for it that way, never mentioned it when we met again. But, when we parted after the war in Spain, you gave El Blanco to me and told me to take it home… I noticed very soon that there was a lot of heavy silver on the saddle. So when I got home, I knew what I wanted to do – I traded them to a ring at a jeweller’s and proposed to the girl I loved.“

Their horses walked steadily side by side and Sergio glanced to this side curiously, waiting for Gareth to go on.

“She said yes and I was ecstatic. I still lived at my parents’ home but then old Owain died and left his house to me in his will. I had a place where we could start our life and we started really planning the wedding. I cleaned up the cottage, got plumbing done there, whatever work I could, dreamed about carrying her over the threshold, children… all the sweet things, you know.” Gareth looked into the thin air and glanced quickly back at Sergio, a shy smile flashing quickly on his lovely crooked lips. “She was… fire and all the good things and I couldn’t wait to make her mine.”

Gareth was silent for a moment, focusing on his horse that had to take careful steps over the ruins of an old field fence.

“Well, then the war broke out. And I was called up. It was sudden, we couldn’t hurry the wedding enough to get married before I was sent off.” Gareth tightened his jaw and squinted his eyes; after a moment his face softened and he went on.

“We were so… young and sweet and good. I wanted her so much, we both wanted, but we had talked that we would save ourselves to the marriage, it would be soon and we would have a lifetime together after it, all that… But now I knew I might not be coming back. I might die. So the night before I had to leave I climbed up to her window, she sneaked out, she still shared the room with her two sisters, you know, we ran to my place. And yes, she was fire and all the good things. We just made love through the night, it was… heavenly, it felt right. It was so good I forgot for that time how sad and desperate it was.”

Sergio looked at his friend. “I’m glad you could do it. And you came back, didn’t you? You didn’t die.”

Gareth let out a wounded growl. “Right, I didn’t… I was not yet on the front, we were on a training camp, when my application for a two-day leave for wedding went through and she started the arrangements back home. The former priest, father Gary, was going to wed us, it would have been a small ceremony but still all the nice things, a wedding mass, white dress and flowers and cake and a dance… Her cousin got married just a week before our wedding and she was a guest, she was going to bring back her long veil, something borrowed for luck you know… when Germans bombed that town, Swansea. Just… hellfire over innocent civilians. The wedding house got hit at night and everybody died. She died instantly. The message didn’t reach me before I had already left for home. So when I arrived, I thought she would be meeting me at the station… no, she wasn’t. There was my mother and father with this unknown priest from somewhere, father Gary had died, too, and they told me what had happened. That she was gone.”

“I’m sorry, Gareth”, Sergio said quietly; he had never known the sorrow his friend had held inside him. In a way, it looked like he was still holding it back; Gareth’s eyes were gleaming with tears, but not enough to roll down his cheeks.

“It’s… I’ve been so numb ever since”, Gareth said. “There was a funeral instead of the wedding, and I went back to war. Day in, day out. Mission to mission, kill, survive, kill to survive. Don’t think about anything else. Just the job at hand, how to take down that one, how to stay alive in this battle. Part of the machine.” He turned his face to Sergio and looked at him in the eye. “That has been part of why it has been so difficult to respond to you the way I should have done much earlier. You’ve had to work too hard on me to open up to you. I’m sorry I put you through it.”

Now it was Sergio’s time to have his eyes gleaming with tears. “Oh you stupid man, don’t even think that way. That’s no reason to be sorry about. You have right to grieve, of course you do. You don’t owe me anything just because I love you.”

Once again, Sergio’s words shook Gareth to his foundations. He had to halt his horse because he burst to tears in the middle of the murky green moorland.

Sergio stopped alongside him, stepped down from the saddle and helped Gareth down from his horse. He held the crying Welshman in his embrace until his violent, shaking sobs calmed down to snotty sighs.

“I never thought I would love again”, Gareth said. “I haven’t even wanted it. But I do. I love you, Sergio.”

He still wasn’t exactly sure what Sergio meant when he said he loved him. Sergio had told him he was still waiting for possible signs or hints that could lead him to the traces of Iker Casillas, and if he was to leave to chase them, Gareth could not stop him, nor would he want to. If Gareth’s love was going to be a temporary help to get Sergio through the pain of losing someone else, he would give it to him.

In the back of his mind he realized that Sergio might think just the same way about him.

 

Back at the stables Gareth was already looking forward to a long night’s rest to soothe him from the emotional trip. He was surprised when his mother came to them through the dark yard.

“Father Cristiano is going to say Mass tomorrow morning. He’s already put the time on the announcements board. Put your alarm on, you should be up on time to ring the bells. The boys will come to help”, she said.

“Thanks for telling me, mum. I will”, Gareth promised.

“Oh bugger”, he sighed to Sergio after his mother had gone back in, “I thought we’d sleep late and then I’d take you to this nice place, but apparently our priest has got me some work.”

 

 


	9. Abide with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless_  
>  _Ills have no weight and tears no bitterness_  
>  (Abide with Me, Henry Francis Lyte 1847)
> 
>    
> Father Cristiano wants his celestial visitor to stay.

 

**Lisbon, previous winter**

 

The tables are set in a T-shape form. Father Cristiano feels he is seated at the very bottom of that letter for a reason; he feels the weight of the accusation on himself, pouring down from those sitting on the top of the T, behind the other table.

Blood hums in his ears, he misses some of the names and titles but he knows what the men are there for. To decide his fate, assess his fitness to keep his position as a priest in his parish, or worse, anywhere.

He’s been told this is just an unofficial meeting, a preliminary hearing; the bishop is not eager to take Cristiano’s case to actual ecclesiastical court. He is certain they will reach an agreement, he says. Cristiano senses icy daggers behind his polite smile.

“As you know, once you have been ordained, you never cease to be a priest. The sacred ordination is a sacrament that never goes invalid”, says the bishop of the diocese, the very man who has been blessing Cristiano on his ordination.

“However, there’s a difference in whether you should _function_ as a priest outwardly, hold the duties of that state”, he continues.

“We wouldn’t want to impose a loss of the clerical state upon you”, says another man, a canon lawyer for the diocese. “It is uncertain if we even could, because breach of the celibacy is not considered an actual ecclesiastical crime. But if your position was to be a subject of a court case, your whole life would be put under detailed scrutiny: your past and present, your personality and actions, even friends and family”, he continues and the polished, polite empathy his words seem to offer doesn’t hide the threat in them.

“The most common procedure in the case of laicization is that the priest requests it himself, when he feels his aspirations in life no longer meet the demands of the clerical state” the bishop says. “I would strongly recommend you to consider that option, father Ronaldo.”

Does he have a hint of sarcasm in his voice when uttering the word _father_?

“Which ever conclusion you arrive at, it is of course clear that this parish, or any other parish in my diocese, can no longer afford to have you as a clergyman. I can’t speak on behalf of any other bishops, but if my opinion is consulted, I would find it hard to recommend your services anywhere.”

 

Cristiano’s mother takes his son’s side like she always does.

“What nonsense!” she shouts when Cristiano tells her about the meeting, throwing her hands in the air dramatically. She goes on and on about famous men of faith who have stumbled in their personal lives but later proven themselves valuable and holy, some even canonized after their death.

“I have seen and heard you in your work. I am not saying this just because you are my son; I know you would be one of the greatest, a real asset to the church”, she says.

Dolores is not going to give up on his son, and she is not going to let Cristiano give up. Both her family and Cristiano’s father’s family have had priests in many generations; she knows the world and is well connected.

She is sure that a shortage of priests threatens the Catholic Church in many countries in the future, and there are people in high places aware of the situation. The war has swept off young men all around, and the mentality is strongly towards rebuilding nations: find a love, start a family, reproduce and fill the earth! The baby booming world will surely have more demand for priests than supply of them. The church would be foolish to let her Cristiano’s talent go to waste.

She is going to make some long distance calls.

 

***

 

The angel detached his other hand from the baptismal font and took father Cristiano’s both hands in his. Cristiano felt the warmth that had tingled on the heavenly creature’s fingertips start slowly spread from his hands to his whole body as a pleasantly burning glow.

_“Don’t be afraid. I am here for you.”_

The angel’s voice chimed everywhere and nowhere; Cristiano heard the words like they were ringing inside his head, forming in the auditory center of his brain.

“Thank you”, he said.

The angel laughed. The sound was silver bells ringing. _“Don’t thank me. We don’t send ourselves.”_

“You know who I am thanking.”

_“Oh, a clever one.”_ Cristiano had had no idea that an angel could have a smile that would be so flirtatious.

He looked at the angel up and down.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked.

_“What a stupid question”_ , the angel grinned widely. _“I feel no cold or heat or other displeasure.”_

“I’m glad you’re… comfortable”, Cristiano said and the angel chuckled. _“I know what you were thinking. How to avoid saying the word ‘pleasure’ and what it brings to your mind. But oh yes, I am capable of feeling it.”_

Cristiano was baffled but squeezed the surprisingly forward angel’s hands before detaching his touch.

“I still need to find something to put on you. You can’t go around… like that”, he gestured towards the toned body.

_“I’m glad you want to keep me around”_ , the angel chimed.

“Do I have a choice?”

_“You always have a choice, you know that, Cristiano.”_

The echo of those words kept ringing in his brain when he walked to the sacristy to raid its closets. He looked at the extra surplice: it had a deep square neckline both front and back, so the angel’s wings could possibly fit in it. At least he could give it a try.

The angel complied to Cristiano’s attempt to dress him with ease. He lifted his arms up to dive into the white tunic-like garment and let Cristiano slide its lace-trimmed hem down his body.

Cristiano would have expected the angel’s wings to be a problem but they were not; he folded them neatly along his back like a bird, the hump barely visible under the cloth if one didn’t know what to look for.

“Looks good”, Cristiano said.

_“Thank you”_ , the angel answered and spun around once, the surplice flowing in the air with the movement of his pirouette.

“Now you’re just showing off”, Cristiano chuckled and the angel pouted at him.

_“You haven’t seen nothing yet”_ , he chimed. And to prove his words he carefully drew his folded wings out of the open neckline of the surplice, opened them wide and shook them like a bird stretching its wings before flight.

They were magnificent, large feathers and flights shone immaculately white and the tips of the wings reached at least halfway up the high walls of the church when they were extended upwards like that. The vision seemed to fill the whole space.

“You were right. _Now_ you’re showing off”, Cristiano said.

The angel flashed him another one of his radiant boyish grins. _“I didn’t even take off”_ , he replied. And, like reading Cristiano’s mind, he did; but only modestly, just enough to rise up to the toes of his one foot like a ballet dancer and flap the wings once to get an inch of air between his feet and the floor.

A wave of worry washed through Cristiano’s mind. He knew he should head to the rectory to get some sleep before his first mass. But he was fascinated by the angel and reluctant to leave him in the church.

_“Do not worry, Cristiano. I told you I am here for you, remember? I’m not leaving you. Let’s go. You’re right, it’s bedtime.”_

When they left the building to walk through the dark churchyard, the angel folded in his wings and they blended in the skin of his back like they were never there.

 

The angel sat on edge of the narrow bed in father Cristiano’s modest bedroom, swung his feet in the air like a little boy and watched the priest calmly undress his clergy clothes. Cristiano felt the weight of the gaze on his back and couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder.

When he met the angel’s eyes, they were dark and warm, full of infinite compassion.

It stripped the fluttering trace of anguish out of Cristiano’s mind, the feeling of being out of place he had been having ever since he had been forced to leave his home for this new job.

Cristiano felt safe. Guarded; not wary but watched over, not let to fall.

He saw the angel slowly pull the borrowed surplice off over his head and fold it on the footboard of the bed.

Cristiano was drawn to approach the angel. He sat down next to him on the bed and turned his face his way, eyes tentative, full of wonder and questions.

The angel answered them all with one simple gesture. He gently cupped Cristiano’s jaw and leaned in to softly kiss his lips.

Father Cristiano had heard of angel kisses before but he had never thought they could be quite like this: swelled with intimate passion, heated like pure fire of love.

“I don’t think you’ll want to sleep for the next few hours, Cristiano.”

For the first time, Cristiano saw and heard the angel actually talk. His cute pouty lips moved fast forming the words and his voice was husky, like he hadn’t used it very often. Still, Cristiano thought it was one of the sweetest sounds he had ever heard.

“I hope you’re guiding me the right way”, he said.

The angel smiled. “Don’t question it, Cristiano”, he assured and kissed him once more. “Don’t question it.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took the chapter title from my favourite english hymn and I wanted to quote it as a whole here because there are many points there that could be thought to describe Cristiano's feelings in this chapter. Yeah I may be weird but there are many hymns that could be love songs and many love songs that could be hymns, mostly those that tell of eternal pining for your God/love, or the gratitude of being protected by your God/love.
> 
> Abide with me; fast falls the eventide  
> The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.  
> When other helpers fail and comforts flee  
> Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
> 
> Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day  
> Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away;  
> Change and decay in all around I see;  
> O Thou who changest not, abide with me.
> 
> Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word  
> But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord,  
> Familiar, condescending, patient, free.  
> Come not to sojourn, but abide with me.
> 
> Thou on my head in early youth didst smile  
> And though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,  
> Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee.  
> On to the close, O Lord, abide with me.
> 
> I need Thy presence every passing hour.  
> What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power?  
> Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?  
> Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.
> 
> I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless  
> Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.  
> Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?  
> I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
> 
> Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes  
> Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.  
> Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee  
> In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.


	10. Morning has broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More like morning is broken.  
> Father Cristiano almost misses his first Mass.

 

 

Father Cristiano had turned the nightlight down but the room wasn’t dark.

They sat on his bed facing each other, the priest with his legs crossed under him, the angel on his knees, his torso slightly bent forward to give room for his wings.

The angel didn’t actually _look_ illuminated; his skin didn’t shine visibly. Instead, he created an aura that looked like there was a candle lit between them, casting warm golden light on their faces.

“Cristiano”, the angel said in his husky voice, pronouncing the name like a caress on the priest’s cheek.

Cristiano looked at his face, his parted lips still burning from the afterglow of the angel kisses. “What’s your name?” he asked. “What should I call you?”

The angel smiled. “I always know when you’re talking to me. It doesn’t matter; you can call me with any name you like”, he said.

“Of course”, father Cristiano smiled.

He wanted to keep kissing the angel. He leaned in towards him; the angel bit his boyishly pouty lower lip with his white teeth, drew in air through his pretty nostrils, looked at Cristiano’s mouth and slowly lifted his gaze to Cristiano’s eyes, closing the final gap between them slowly until their lips met again, mouths exploring each other.

The angel inched closer to him, until he could climb to Cristiano’s lap. He had to lift his wings and spread them a little to avoid them crashing on the bed. The arch of the wings rose above his head like a section of a white, feathered dome; it made Cristiano feel sheltered.

The boyish but athletic body weighed next to nothing in his lap but the angel’s touch was still intense and warm. “It’s all right, Cristiano”, he whispered. “You can undress and touch me if you feel like it. I will not let you do anything that would be of harm to you.”

Cristiano was used to sleeping modestly in his white boxer shorts and vest, which he preferred to full-length pajamas. He hesitated briefly to heed the angel’s words, but when the angel leaned backwards on his lap, supporting himself with his arms to give Cristiano room to take off his short-sleeved top, he slowly pulled it off over his head.

The angel watched his undressing with a pleased smile on his face and flapped his wings a couple of times like applauding from excitement. He backed down from Cristiano’s lap to make room for him to take off his shorts and returned to his lap after he was through.

“Like this”, the angel whispered, “I like it like this.”

Cristiano would have said the same and more, had he been able to utter a word. Instead, he gasped for breath and let his eyes close for the sudden rush of pleasure when the lovely body pressed tight down on his lap.

He felt a sudden urge to flip the boy down on the bed to hear if that would make the husky voice break into a surprised, humorous giggle (Cristiano had a feeling it could have that effect). He would blanket that athletic body with his own, propping himself on his elbows just enough to not suffocate the beautiful creature, keep kissing him, corkscrew his hips as close between the muscular thighs as he could and feel his way well inside him, between the round buttocks. Would the angel close his magnificent wings smoothly along his back or spread them to his sides to keep them from being crushed under their bodies?

Oh _no_. What put these thoughts to his head, what brought up these unwanted desires? Father Cristiano had a slight feeling that he should be at least a bit worried about it: The silky smooth warm skin on his, the heaving chest to his heaving chest, the tight embrace around him, the hot breath on the shell of his ear felt too heavenly to be entirely sinful and _definitely_ sinful enough to raise the doubt of their heavenly origins.

 _Don’t question it, Cristiano,_ rang in his ears. _I will not let you do anything that would be of harm to you._

Cristiano gave in. His mind was already a heated, disarranged mess, his body hard, hot and ready, a burning collection of raw open nerve ends, heart throbbing everywhere, sending a rush of blood through every vein under his electrified skin.

He felt the movement of the muscles of the angel’s thighs as he shifted up on his lap, knees digging firmly in the mattress on both sides of his own, finding the right position before slowly lowering himself back down on him.

Cristiano slid home into the sweet heat.

 

***

 

Gareth woke up from the crook of Sergio’s arm to the morning concert of a flock of birds outside the window, a rooster crowing its trumpet solo on top of the chirping and twittering.

He couldn’t resist the temptation to brush a lightest kiss on the tip of Sergio’s nose, making his eyelids flutter. The Spaniard cracked them open drowsily and a lazy smile rose on his sleepy face like the first rays of the morning sun, like a reflection of the open, relaxed smile already crinkling the corners of Gareth’s blue eyes.

“You’re smiling”, Sergio murmured, voice low like it was still on its way from slumberland to an actual use in the daytime world.

“I’m happy”, Gareth said and had his kiss returned, multiplied.

He turned to grope the bedside table for the clock; it was only minutes to the set alarm time.

“Oh bugger”, he groaned, stretched his arms and rubbed his eyes. “Church time.”

“You go there, church boy”, Sergio said and gently smacked Gareth’s bare ass when he rose up from the bed to get ready for the Mass. “I can use some more sleep for the both of us.”

 

Gareth would have expected father Cristiano to be in the church when he got there but the building was empty. Father Gary had usually come to church at least an hour before the time of the Mass; he had taken the time to peacefully prepare for the day, settling himself in a prayer on his own before vesting himself.

When even Mariano and Martin entered the church before a glimpse of the priest had been seen, Gareth grew worried.

“I’d better go check on him”, he said. “You start getting yourselves and everything ready but don’t ring the bells before I’m back”, he advised.

 

***

 

Cristiano eyed the angel fondly when they laid on his narrow bed, faces down, peaceful in their postcoital glow. He extended his hand to switch on the little bedside lamp because he wanted to study the beautiful creature closer.

He hadn’t noticed it earlier, but the angel had marks on his skin. It was as if they had been imprinted on him at the moment of his incarnation from the painting, like a photograph exposed on film or a metal plate by light. Father Cristiano was quite sure he could recognize some of the images that had left their traces on the smooth golden skin – flowers and animals from the meadow, a smiling little girl along with some decoratively engrossed Bible verses.

Cristiano traced them delicately with his fingertip. “Beautiful”, he whispered. The angel turned his face towards him and smiled.

Cristiano stroked the strong back between the wings; the human skin merged gradually into the feathered texture on the trapezoid muscles, right before the point where his hand would normally meet the shoulder blades. “They are so large and powerful”, he wondered, quiet awe in his voice, “Yet you move them so gracefully. Don’t they ever get in your way?”

The angel smiled at him again. “I can hide them”, he said. And to prove his words, he did; he folded them to his back like he had done exiting the church. Cristiano didn’t notice them dissolving or merging into the skin, but before he knew they weren’t there any more, only trace of them a small imprint on the skin, the same kind of image as the ones left by the angel’s surroundings in the church.

Cristiano felt wistful as soon as the wings were invisible, like the room was missing something precious he had already grown to like. The angel smiled a quiet little smile. He sat up on the edge of the bed and stroked Cristiano’s hair and from the corner of his eye - and much to his relief - Cristiano got a glimpse of the white wings growing back to their full bloom.

The last thing that Cristiano sensed before falling asleep was a feeling of being protected.

 

***

 

Sun already shone its rays through the window of Cristiano’s bedroom. He knew he should be on his way to the church as soon as possible, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to pull the angel, who was still sitting on the bedside, on top of him for a kiss and hug.

“Thank you”, Cristiano said. “Thank you for being here.”

 

***

 

The front door to the rectory was unlocked, and Gareth stepped in without knocking; having grown up on the premises, he was used to moving in and out of all the buildings with no hesitation.

He heard a sound from the priest’s bedroom. At least he was awake! Gareth wished there wasn’t any trouble; it would have been so unfortunate if the new priest had fallen ill right on the morning of his first Mass.

He respected the priest’s privacy enough to knock politely on the door, and heard some sudden sounds inside: a startled shout and then rumbles and knocks, like someone had been hitting himself on a wall or furniture.

Gareth opened the door, worried.

“Father –“ he started but the talk died on his lips when his eyes met what was happening in the room.

Two faces were turned towards the door. Father Cristiano’s handsome, even features expressed open bewilderment, whereas the pretty young man who sat straddled in his lap, back to the door, merely greeted Gareth with a gently beaming smile over his naked shoulder.

Gareth stood petrified, his hand on the doorknob, for several seconds before pulling the door shut with a bang. He leaned on the wall next to the door, trying to catch his breath and collect his thoughts.

This couldn’t be happening. He could not be forced to deal with this. How was it possible that their parish was hit with such a streak of bad luck? After losing their priest and having to manage with short-time substitutes or visitors who hardly knew where they were… _this?_ Gareth couldn’t even… whatever it was.

He wanted to flee somewhere but knew it was impossible: he’d have to get father Cristiano to church on time or he would have to be the one apologizing to the congregation and making excuses on his behalf, and he certainly didn’t want to do that.

He was about to knock on the door and remind the priest he was running late when the door opened and panting father Cristiano stormed out the door, white collarpiece hanging between his teeth, black shoes under his arm. He was pulling his second black stocking up and started to button his cassock while walking.

Gareth paced on his side, fuming with anger.

“How can you do something like this? You announced the time of the Mass yourself. There are probably already people waiting for you even when we didn’t even ring the bells yet.”

The priest took the collar out of his mouth and placed it on his shirt under the cassock before he could speak. “I’m sorry, this…” the priest started catching his breath but Gareth was too cross with him to listen.

“Is this why you were forced to leave? You fucked boys?” he continued his grilling.

”It wasn’t like that. And this isn’t like that.” Cristiano looked anxiously at him and stopped by the front door to put his shoes on.

”I will need to know what it was. I won’t let anybody be at risk of getting hurt in our village. We couldn’t take it”, Gareth said, true anguish in his voice.

“Believe me, please, this is nothing like that. I can explain. Later. Please.” Cristiano looked pleadingly deep in his eyes.

Gareth extended his arms to his sides for a gesture of exaggerated shrug. ”Well, we have a Mass. I hope. But we will talk about this more later, father Cristiano”, he said pointedly.

”You should call me Cris. Your mother does”, Cristiano said, hurrying towards the church.

”I don’t really want to hear about you and my mother right now, Cris”, Gareth said and picked up pace in his steps.

 

Gareth went to the belltower. Father Cristiano sneaked in the sacristy. He was grateful Gareth had taken the time to show him where everything was the day before; after that, his own routine kicked in.

Amice, alb, cincture, stole. Chasuble over the head, quick glance in the mirror, hair smoothed with hands, no time to comb. Cross, the quickest prayer, cross.

Now it was all up to the Lord.

 

Maybe father Cristiano was blessed, maybe he was just very good at his work, maybe the churchgoers of the parish settled for little after being deprived of services for so long. Whatever the reason, the Mass went on surprisingly smoothly. It was beautiful, peaceful when needed, invigorating when needed.

Father Cristiano circled the church from the sacristy to the doorstep to meet the parishioners leaving after the Mass. He shook hands, smiled, received heartily expressed welcomes and thanks, paid compliments as much as he received them.

Gareth stood on the other side of the door, exchanging a few words with some villagers, keeping a tight eye on the priest as if he was suspicious he might try to escape the inevitable interrogation Gareth was about to hold him for.

Eventually the people had dispersed. Father Cristiano returned to the sacristy to take off his vestments. Gareth followed him, glaring but silent, waited for him to hang the sacred garments to the closet and nodded to him to follow him out of the church.

They walked to the rectory in silence, uneasiness building up in Cristiano’s chest due to Gareth’s apparent anger. Cristiano found himself longing for the angel; it seemed that within mere hours he had become dependent on his soothing presence.

He felt immediately better when they entered the rectory and he noticed the angel waiting for them in the hall. He was wearing the surplice from the sacristy and sat modestly on the edge of a stool.

Gareth halted in the middle of the hall, distancing himself from both the priest and the stranger, glaring at both as suspiciously.

“W-who is he, anyway?” he asked with a rising voice, gesturing at the angel with both hands. “I mean – “ he stopped and gave the boy’s face a longer, more tentative look, “there’s something… he looks – you look familiar”, he continued, and approached the stranger, an expression of disbelief rising on his face.

“ _James?_ ” he asked, “It can’t be! I was there when your -  when _his_ body was sent home…” Gareth let his arms drop helplessly on his sides and looked at Cristiano like asking him for help, simply perplexed.

“Show him”, Cristiano said.

The angel stood up and carefully pulled his wings out of the back of the lace-trimmed garment. He spread them to their full width slowly, looking back at Gareth with a nearly shy but calm and tender smile on his face.

Gareth heard his beautiful, bell-like voice chime in his ears. _“Do not fear, Gareth”_ , it said.

“It’s a miracle”, father Cristiano said to Gareth, “It’s a real miracle.”

Gareth couldn’t but nod slowly. He couldn’t argue that.

Still, any miracle couldn’t take away his need to hear the truth about father Cristiano’s past. He turned his eyes back to the priest and looked him in the eye, gaze as heavy and serious as before.

“You have to be absolutely honest with me, do you understand? Otherwise I don’t hesitate to take this further”, he said. “I want to ask you again, was this kind of behaviour towards some young boys the reason you left your former position? Don’t even try to say that you came this far completely willingly, especially when your mother sent the parish a considerable sum of money to pay for your wages.”

Cristiano locked his brown eyes in Gareth’s and answered his piercing, icy gaze as sincerely as he could.

“No, Gareth, it wasn’t that”, he said.

“But it’s true, I did get kicked out of my work as a priest. I _did_ get in trouble. It was public enough to be a scandal, but it wasn’t about boys. Or any boy, or a man. It was a woman.”

 

 


	11. Secret sins of the heart

 

**Lisbon, previous year**

 

It becomes a routine. She comes to confession on Wednesdays. Not always weekly: sometimes two, sometimes three weeks apart. She wouldn’t need to come even that often, father Cristiano thinks, but doesn’t discourage her confessing regularly; that is, after all, what all Christians should be doing.

Father Cristiano hears confessions on Wednesdays. There are two priests assigned to the church so they have an opportunity to arrange working hours and could easily take turns but that’s not how it goes. Routine is how it goes; every Wednesday, during the announced hours, father Cristiano sits in the closed booth, listens to the people on the other side of the metal grill, proposes acts of penance, imparts absolution.

He learns to recognize her. The heels on the stone and wood, the sigh she always takes, probably not noticing herself, when she kneels on her side of the confessional.

Her lips are always red, he sees it so close through the black grill, lipstick the shade of the little glasses of votive candles. Her voice resembles wind chimes or cool clear water running over smooth pebbles; all emotions she feels leak into it almost too easily, coloring its tone as well with joy as with despair.

Father Cristiano finds her sins more endearing than grave. She worries of her vanity: “I pay too much attention to looking nice” and father bites his lip not to reply “It hasn’t gone to waste, dear”. She describes her desires towards her fiancée, and father Cristiano thinks that their upcoming marriage would be in so much more trouble if the bride did _not_ have such feelings for her future husband.

But he is a professional, doesn’t give his opinion as a man but does what he is expected to do in the name of the Trinity, on behalf of Christ Himself.

 

As a cousin of her father, the bishop is more or less their family priest. She is, however, adamant to have a priest of her own parish to wed her. 

Father Cristiano is happy to do it. There is the safe distance: his office, her matrimony, her husband. As well as the physical boundaries: the wooden wall and the metal lattice of the confessional; during the Wedding Mass a railing, a kneeler, layers and layers of ceremonial clothing that remind that he acts _in persona Christi._

“You know me better than anyone”, she says at the wedding reception. It’s a brief moment, the two of them alone, and father Cristiano finds himself praying for somebody to come and burst the bubble, or for nobody to do so.

He smiles his warm smile. “I’m just an instrument. A vehicle”, he says.

She smiles knowingly, looks up in his eyes from under her lashes, she is almost a head shorter than him even in her modest heels.

 

She keeps coming on Wednesdays.

“Sometimes he doesn’t even touch me for days”, she says, voice trembling with the shame of being the one who wants more, the shame of being vain enough to want to be coveted. Father Cristiano advises her to seek counseling, he offers to see them both outside confession. “We’ll talk about it”, she says in a voice that tells they will not.

Father Cristiano is disappointed and relieved. The back of his mind screams against his initial suggestion, he does not want to counsel them, listen to his reasons; he is afraid he would attack him bitterly on her behalf, with sarcasm and veiled insults. On the other hand, he would like to connect to her unbound by the seal of confession; it would give _him_ a better opportunity to handle his own feelings in the case, seek professional counseling from other priests.

 _If only I could call Ricky. He would know what to say_ , he thinks.

He can only confess his own sins; not in any way imply who or what has woken in him the desires he is battling.

 

Each passing week makes it more difficult.

“I’m tired of even trying anymore”, she says. “If I nag him about wanting a baby, we do it once, that’s it. I want to be held. I want to be kissed. I want to feel his – I want to feel hands on me. Hands that _want_ to touch me.”

Father Cristiano almost says that everything seems to be in order, there are other important aspects to marriage than physical intimacy, but he knows he would not believe his own words.

He thanks his luck that confession is not about the marriage counseling she has promised to think of (but silently declined) or consoling the feelings of the penitent. Father Cristiano resorts to fulfilling his duties: he hears her confession, says the words of forgiveness, hopes they are not as hollow as they seem in these situations.

 

The broken despair in her voice. The shame and repentance that Cristiano wants to wipe away before she even expresses it. “Father, I have been touching myself. Just to feel something. I don’t even think about him when I’m doing it any more. I’m so sorry to talk about these impure thoughts to you. But lately -” her voice shakes even more “They have been all about you.”

Father Cristiano doesn’t remember later what he responds to her, it comes out in a rush of adrenaline. He can’t let her talk like that in the open booth of the penitent in the confessional because anybody coming to the church might hear it; he doesn’t say it for himself but for her protection, he couldn’t have anybody spreading ugly rumours about her. He does his all to convince her that there is nothing ugly or unwanted about her, and she thoroughly deserves reconciliation of her nonexistent sins. The last thing he wants is to leave her hanging but there may come a day when he can’t be the one hearing her confession any more, and if that is the case, he hopes she can forgive him.

 

Cristiano changes shifts for next week, his colleague takes over the Wednesday confession hours.

Then the other priest falls ill, but she doesn’t come next week. Cristiano is relieved.

 

The other priest’s sick leave continues and Cristiano joins the local charity committee of the parish on his behalf. He hasn’t expected to meet her in the committee room but there she is; she is, in fact, the head of the committee.

She’s a pleasure to work with. She is organized and kind, practical and energetic. 

She has a list of families in need; it’s been planned that she and the priest will visit each of them to see personally about what kind of help would assist them most. She has already been to some homes with Cristiano’s colleague, but Cristiano promises to accompany her for the rest of the visits.

They go around for two exhausting days of walking and riding trams. Father Cristiano offers his arm to her on the cobblestone streets to keep her from tripping over in her heels.

The last of the trams is quite full. All the seats are taken; they stand on the aisle and hold on to the same pole for balance, her silky, manicured hand just below Cristiano’s. For the whole ride the sides of their fingers touch, her index finger sending a steady warm current through the skin of Cristiano’s little finger.

The spot burns him long into the night.

 

Her husband embarks on a merchant ship; that’s what he does for a living.

 

The charity project continues, she accompanies Cristiano for gathering donated goods on a small truck somebody generously borrows the parish. The women of the committee sort them to packages for each of the families, and she goes with Cristiano for another truck drive to distribute them to the recipients.

It’s a joy to leave boxes to people who accept them with happy gratitude. They drive back to the church smiling; she squeezes Cristiano’s hand out of sheer happiness and leaves her hand in his.

Cristiano lets her. He drives on the fourth gear as long as he can keep the motor running, dreading the next turn or crossing where he will be forced to use his hand to shift.

 

***

 

“You were right about father Ronaldo”, Gareth told Sergio when he finally got home. “Everything is not right with his past. Or present.”

“Oh?” Sergio sounded more surprised than Gareth would have thought with the way his friend usually mocked priests.

They laid lazily on Gareth’s bed, fully clothed. Sergio had dressed himself and made the bed neat while Gareth had been away, but it was a cozy place to hang out together; it was more comfortable than chairs and offered a chance to stay close to one another.

“But I’ll tell more about it later. I heard other news as well”, Gareth said.

Talking with the parishioners after the church had been productive. Gareth had located petrol and spare parts for Sergio’s motorcycle. He had also heard that the town telephone exchange that had been out of order for months had finally been replaced with a newer and larger one. Broken telephone lines had been repaired and new ones were going to be installed.

“The telephone of the rectory is back in use. I’m certain that father Cristiano won’t mind you using it if you need to”, he said. Gareth’s voice wavered a little when he told Sergio about the telephone; he couldn’t think of any other reason for Sergio to use it than to make new inquiries about Casillas, and that might lead to Sergio leaving him to go on with his search.

Gareth had talked with his father, too.

“Hay is ready to be cut on most fields and the weather forecast predicts sun for a week. We need to start making hay. I’ll have to start cutting the first fields today”, he said.

“Can I help you?” Sergio asked but Gareth shook his head.

“Later yes. When it’s dried, we can use all possible hands for loading it when we start storing it. Of course you can come to help me with harnessing Del to draw the mower.”

“You use horses for field work?”

Gareth’s face twisted to a more embarrassed grimace than Sergio’s innocent question should have prompted. But this was something that distressed him constantly.

“That is..” he started and sighed. “I don’t know how much longer we can continue like this. I mean the rectory as a farm. It barely supports one family and the priest. We should modernize, probably expand… but it’s been in a halt during the wars. And I… I had some of it planned out, I saw the steps to the future so clear before me, but since I lost Emma it’s like… all those plans have disappeared in a fog. It feels like I can’t even remember what it was that I wanted to do, like all those thoughts were thought by somebody else and I can’t grasp them anymore.”

Sergio pulled him in a hug. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, Gareth. I’m sorry”, he said. “I just thought… that if you do all the work with horses, maybe I could give you a hand with El Blanco. Do some other work on another field when you’re cutting hay with Del.”

Gareth told a little bashfully that he hadn’t really trained El Blanco to work on the field. The stallion had been harnessed only to draw a light carriage, not agricultural implements.

“I spoil him rotten”, he said, looking deep in Sergio’s eyes and grazed idly the man’s bearded chin. “He’s not a workhorse. He’s for fun and games.“ He kissed Sergio’s lips softly. “And long, long rides.”

Sergio’s arm rested on Gareth’s back, locking him to his side. “Long rides, huh?” he repeated, brushing Gareth’s hip with his palm.

“Long rides”, Gareth whispered and inched himself under Sergio’s arm until he was on top of him, straddling his hips.

“I like that”, Sergio said, gliding his hands firmly up and down Gareth’s long back, all the way to his round buttocks, pressing him closer to his hips. “Are you sure you’re not treating my horse too nice?”

“You gave him to me. I spoil him all I want”, Gareth said, rocking his hips from side to side as much as he could under Sergio’s hold. “And he is good to me, too.”

“How good?” Sergio asked.

Gareth leaned down to kiss him. “The best ride ever.”

 

***

 

**Lisbon, previous year**

 

Next Wednesday she comes in during the confession hours. She is devastated, desperate; father Cristiano sees through the grill that she is dressed in black, her lips are bare, without her signature red lipstick.

She has been crying, tears pool on the lower lids of her wide brown eyes.

“He is dead.” Violent sobs shake her kneeling body. “The ship was caught in the middle of a battle by accident and went down. Only one man was saved and it was not him. I feel so horrible. I’m afraid I called it upon him by talking all those bad things about him. Being unfaithful to him in my feelings and thoughts. I can never take it back now. I can never make amends. It is all my fault.”

 _She is wrong, she is irrational, and that is not the place for her to be now_.

That’s all Father Cristiano can think of. He follows his instinct, opens the door of his booth in the confessional, grabs her both arms and draws her to his seat, pulls her sitting down on his lap and closes his arms tight around her.

“I’m so sorry”, he whispers in her ear over and over again, rocking her gently like a baby, “I’m so sorry for your loss and your sorrow. You did nothing wrong, hear me, you have done nothing wrong.“

He strokes her head, usually so carefully done hair covered with a tightly wrapped black silk scarf. She still weeps, her tears moisten Cristiano’s cheek and the side of his neck, some drops rolling all the way down to his collar. Her arms are around his neck, she squeezes him tight. She cries and cries and he lets her until her trembling begins to ease down with each deep breath she takes.

Father Cristiano knows the church is empty but he needs to take her elsewhere to talk to her. He gently brushes his hand across her cheek, wiping her tears and getting her slowly to ease the grip of her arms around his neck.

“Come to my office”, he says and they get up. He leaves the door of the confessional wide open; if anybody comes in the church, they’ll see that the priest is not present.

This is an emergency that exceeds the normal weekly duties.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have any specific person in mind with the female character; unfortunately I don't have a strong feel for Cristiano with any of his past or present girlfriends (but I'm open for change in that respect) and didn't feel like making a gender change -type character either. So she just... is. Feel free to picture her any way you please.
> 
> About the time frame of the story: I've kept it vague but as the story has progressed this far, I've thought to myself that the present time of the story is summer 1945, July is perhaps the most fitting. If you have wondered about it. If not, vaguely post-war era is close enough :)


	12. I want you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>    
>  _The silver saxophones say I should refuse you_  
>  _The cracked bells and washed-out horns_  
>  _Blow into my face with scorn_  
>  _But it’s not that way_  
>  _I wasn’t born_  
>  _To lose you_  
>   
>  Bob Dylan – I Want You (1966)
> 
>  
> 
> The fall of Father Cristiano.
> 
> Gareth and Sergio ride again.
> 
>  

 

**Lisbon, previous year**

 

Father Cristiano closes the office door behind them. She looks in the thin air with blank eyes and shudders. Cristiano can guess it’s the feeling of coldness that creeps in after crying so long; he can almost feel it in his own body.

He takes her hands in his, sits on the edge of his desk and pulls her closer. He looks sincerely in her puffy, teary eyes; he doesn’t feel like smiling but he pours as much warmth in his gaze as he can.

“Inês”, he says softly, “You’re just barely beginning to mourn for him. You are still in a state of shock. It is normal that you feel sorrow, and even remorse. So often, when anybody loses a loved one, the self-deprecating thoughts emerge: I should have done more, been more, loved more. But trust me, you have no reason for feeling guilt. As far as I know, you have been nothing but a good wife to him. Do you believe me?” he asks, squeezing her delicate hands.

Inês doesn’t say anything; she only snuffles shortly and Cristiano senses her knees buckle from fatigue. He quickly steps up from the desk and guides her to lean to it; he is still holding her hands and wouldn’t want to let go, so it’s hard to pull a chair for her.

Cristiano rubs the backs of her hands with his thumbs and keeps talking. “Whatever you have talked to me in confession is your heart purifying itself from your sins, giving them up, giving them out to God. It is you freeing from sin, not binding yourself to it. It is a beautiful sacrament and it is the right thing to do. I am utterly sorry if I have in any way made you uncomfortable. It’s my duty to hold anything you feel the need to confess and anything I have ever wanted to do is to help you feel reconciliated.”

He is a little worried if he’s said too much; maybe all this would be better left unsaid, maybe it would be better to pretend to have forgotten whatever has provoked those feelings of guilt in her.

But she squeezes his fingers in a way that tells him that she is grateful for the needed reassurance.

Cristiano leans closer to her, not quite noticing how close; he feels he needs to see in her eyes that his  words are sinking in, that he is able to calm her down, relieve the anxiety and despair she has cried out so helplessly today. “I’m certain he has lived the luckiest and happiest days and nights of his life since he has had you to share it with. You are – everything about you is sweet and pure and amazing.”

Their faces are not more than an inch apart; he realizes it only vaguely before she closes even that last gap. Her lips press on his, hesitating only for a moment before he feels the trembling, tentative kiss turn to something so tight and soft that feelings he thought he could suppress take to flame inside him.

_The worst choice I could make now would be to reject her in her time of need, when she is on the edge of falling to pieces_ , he thinks and that’s the last moment of conscious reasoning he is going to have for a while.

He places his hands on her tiny waist and lifts her up to sit on the desk instead of leaning to it. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him closer; Cristiano feels her soft round breasts pressing to his chest through her dress and his tight buttoned cassock. Her chest heaves with her heavy breaths and the rhythm sends warm waves through Cristiano’s body.

The kiss becomes, if possible, more intense; they manage to breathe through their noses to keep their lips locked together in their needy, passionate dance. Her mouth is hot and tastes salty and bittersweet, like the taste was intensified, sharpened from her shedding so many tears.

The knot of her slippery scarf gets undone and the black silk falls down on the desk. Cristiano tangles the fingers of his hand with her hair that has been hastily put up under the scarf with only a few hairpins; they drop like rain on the desk but the sound is too faint for anybody to hear.

Cristiano’s other hand is still on her waist, the palm on her side and fingertips on the back, caressing it in small circles. He feels her knees pressing his outer thighs on each side and it probably should make him realize that he should start to retreat from the situation but it’s not his mind dictating his actions any more.

He slides his hand down her thigh and meets the slippery silky feel of a sheer nylon stocking; the hemline of her skirt has hiked up just above her knee. She lets a quiet, muted moan in his mouth and presses closer, and he lets his hand slide under her dress, guided by the stocking all the way where it ends and the bare skin of her soft thigh begins.

His fingertips meet the edge of the suspender; he lets them graze along it, his palm on the warm skin of her inner thigh, thumb brushing it, varying the pressure. He rather feels than hears her whimpering against his mouth and senses her inching closer to the edge of the desk.

She’s wearing nothing but the suspender belt and stockings under her skirt. His fingers search and find what they’re after by themselves; she is soft and wet to his hand and she answers his touch riding and grinding it, her arms wrapped tight around his neck. She is too close to keep kissing him anymore; she bites into his shoulder through his cassock as her whole body tenses and Cristiano feels her wetness pulsate to his hand for what seems like an eternity but still not long enough.

Father Cristiano would like to say that it’s the end of it but no. It’s just the beginning.

She doesn’t leave the office rooms of the church immediately; they both need calming down, slow descending to earth. They exchange quiet words about arranging a Memorial Mass and suspending the local charity committee for a few weeks; she uses the ladies room to clean herself up and rearrange her hair.

She goes back to the office only to fetch the scarf that’s still on the desk. Cristiano watches her wrap it over her head in front of the small mirror that hangs on the office door. “I have to buy a hat with a black veil”, she says absentmindedly, looking at her reflection.

 

She moves temporarily back to her parents’ house; her mother wants to take care of her in her time of mourning.

She comes back to meet father Cristiano in the parish office to discuss Memorial Mass arrangements; they start with talking about music and flowers but end up panting frantically against the office door.

Father Cristiano still has a room in his mother’s house in the neighbourhood, but also in the rectory which is, in this city church, located upstairs of the office. Next time she comes over they head there.

He prays to be forgiven for the sin he is going to keep committing.

_This must be the last time_ , he says to himself on his way to meet her in her father’s house.

“This must be the last time”, they whisper to each other, giggling a secret muted laughter of anticipation, squirming out of the items of clothing that are most in the way.

That time it really is; she accidentally cries out her pleasure a little too loud when Cristiano thrusts into her. It’s enough to be heard by her father who hurries to the bedroom door and opens it without knocking, worried about the well-being of his poor widowed daughter.

 

***

 

“So, the girl’s father basically walked in on them and all hell broke loose”, Gareth said to Sergio back at his cottage. “There was apparently a shop assistant delivering something or a nosy neighbour on a visit in the house, anyway, someone who heard the quarrel and you can guess that the gossip was impossible to stop after that. _And_ the father was related to the bishop of the diocese, kind of the boss of the priests, you know. He, the daddy, demanded that the man who had dishonoured their family should have no business being around anymore… We were apparently some kind of a last resort for him, a place far enough to get a fresh start or something.”

Gareth was putting on his work clothes as he told what he had heard from their priest in the rectory. Sergio let out a bellowing laughter. “I’ve always thought that the celibacy thing is ridiculous. It just makes it impossible for any normal man to want to become a priest”, he said. “At least this Ronaldo seems to have a completely healthy appetite, so to speak.”

Gareth had referred to the angel only vaguely, telling Sergio nothing more than that the priest had had a naked young man in his bed in the morning, which was quite enough information for Sergio’s entertainment. Gareth was still struggling to get his mind around the concept or an actual incarnated angel residing in the rectory.

After the first glance he had noticed the differences in the appearance between his old mate James and the angel; James’ hair had been different, he had had a slimmer figure and he hadn’t had the markings on his skin.

The resemblance of the angel in the rectory to the angel in the church painting, however, had been indubitable. Whatever the process of an angel taking a form visible to the human eye was, it was certain that his one had assumed his from the artwork; Gareth had never heard that the man, James’ old relative, who had posed for Owain Fôn Williams, would have had pictures on his skin. In their small town a distinguishing characteristic like that would have been talked about.

“I’ll still be calling you James”, he had concluded and the angel had nodded in agreement. “Whatever is easiest for you”, he had replied, smiling.

Gareth would worry about the priest and the angel later. He knew that field work with the horse had a way of putting his mind at ease. Doing the simple labour forced him to be alert with the movement of the horse and the machine, concentrate on the job at hand, and meanwhile his brain would work on his problem on a subconscious level, getting him closer to a solution.

Sergio left the cottage with him. Gareth saw him to the rectory, briefly telling the priest his guest needed to make some telephone calls, and headed for the stables.

 

***

 

Sun shone low but the air was still hot when Gareth called it a day. He had finished mowing the farthest field of their farm; he saw Del’s back steaming in the evening sun and knew the poor gal was exhausted.

Sergio was at the stable yard with his motorcycle, mending it with the tools Gareth had told him to borrow from his little workshop he had on one end of the building.

“Getting ready?” Gareth asked, nodding to the bike with his head. Sergio grinned widely. “Yes”, he replied proudly, rubbing oil off some leftover bolts with a rag, arranging them on a tray.

Gareth couldn’t help his heart sinking a little; it felt like one step closer of losing Sergio again. He looked at the man’s decorated hands, fingertips blackened with oil and grease to the root of the nails.

“Are you leaving soon, Sergio?” he asked with a small voice.

Sergio stepped up and put his arms over his shoulders, not touching his shirt with his dirty hands. Gareth felt the weight of the strong forearms on his shoulders and leaned his cheek to one of them.

“Gareth”, Sergio said in his soft Spanish accent. “Ronaldo wants me to take a letter back to Portugal from him.” He pressed his forehead to Gareth’s. “But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving _you._ ”

Gareth sighed and stayed silent, absorbing the warmth from the other man. “I will miss you, though”, he said finally.

It was Sergio’s turn to fall silent. He inhaled deeply and turned his face enough to press a soft chaste kiss on Gareth’s lips.

“Sergio?” Gareth asked.

“Huh?”

“Did you hear anything about… him?”

Sergio straightened his neck, a sharp glint in the corner of his eye. “I heard that somebody might know something, but I’ll know more when they call me back”, he said, “I told they could call collect… is that all right?”

Gareth forced a smile on his face. He should be happy for his friend and share his optimism. Iker was dear to him, too; he couldn’t be so selfish that he wouldn’t wish for Sergio to turn every rock to find out what happened to him, even if it meant that the man he loved more deeply every day would travel away.

“Of course it’s all right”, he answered reassuringly.

He lifted Sergio’s arms off his shoulders and popped in the workshop and came out with a large jar of Vaseline in his hand. He tossed it to Sergio who caught it deftly and handed him some clean cotton rags. Sergio looked at him questioningly.

“Clean up your fingers”, Gareth said. “It’s been a hot day. I’ll take you to a place I hope you’ll like.” He smiled over his shoulder when he headed to his cottage, apparently to get something from there.

Sergio started to rub the black oily mess off his hands.

 

Gareth came back with a towel around his neck and another in his hand. “Ready?” he asked Sergio who nodded and stood up; he had taken the extra parts inside.

Gareth brought bridles out for both of the horses; he had already dressed the harness off Del and given her a quick brush after the workday before he had proceeded to clean up the mower and sharpen a few of its blades that had hit on stones and felt blunter than they should.

“I can get the saddles”, Sergio offered but Gareth shook his head.

“No, we’ll ride bareback. We take the horses swimming”, Gareth said.

That sounds nice, Sergio thought. It was welcome after dirty work on a hot day. Then he remembered the cold sea water and suppressed a shiver that went through him just from the thought.

Gareth caught his expression from the corner of his eye and smiled.

“This is a different place”, he said softly to Sergio like he had read his mind.

 

They rode south, to the inland, warm sun beaming low from their side. Sergio followed Gareth who knew the way to whatever place he was taking him.

It wasn’t a long ride; it would not have made much sense if it was, since the idea was to get the horses refreshed, not wear them out. The path went through a small, leafy forest, first mildly uphill, then downhill, until they reached a sunny, green meadow.

A small blue lake, not much larger than a pond,  glistened in the middle of the meadow that was surrounded by the forest on all sides except one. A steep cliff rose up from the other end of the lake, water falling down its edge as a white stream that broke the surface of the clear lake.

The place was warm from the rays of the sun and very calm; the foresty hill that they had ridden through, the tall trees and the high cliff sheltered it from the winds from the sea and inland moors.

Gareth rode right to the waterfront and dismounted his horse, turning back to look at Sergio who rode next to him and halted El Blanco.

“You were right”, Sergio said, smiling down on him, looking around him, admiring the view before he dismounted, too. “This is different. And I like it.”

Gareth’s next move surprised him. The Welshman very casually and quickly took off his clothes, piled them with the rolled towel on the grass and mounted his horse again, completely naked.

“Are you serious?” Sergio asked suspiciously.

“I said we would take them for a swim, didn’t I? I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to ride back in wet clothes”, Gareth said straightforwardly.

Sergio couldn’t but shrug his shoulders and start undressing, his Welsh friend made sense. It wasn’t as uncomfortable to mount the horse undressed as he would have thought; El Blanco’s back was wide and muscular enough to offer a decent seat and his short white hair was smooth and warm.

“Just follow me. The bottom is safe for the hoofs and there’s a deeper spot in the middle”, Gareth said over his shoulder and rode Del into the water.

Sergio couldn’t help a giggle escaping his lips when his feet first touched the water. It was cool, but not freezing cold; the lake was small enough to be warmed by the sun but the waterfall brought there fresh water, creating a cooling stream. The water level rose steadily as the horses walked deeper, and soon Sergio felt water start to lift him floating off the horse’s back; he gathered the reins shorter in his hands and held on tight.

Gareth was already in the middle of the lake and his horse was swimming. Sergio saw him gracefully take off from the horse’s back to take a quick dive to wet his wavy hair. Gareth swam on the side of the horse and around her head, keeping the reins in his hand. He reminded Sergio of a spirit of the forest, something uniquely wild and free, a part of the surrounding nature itself.

Sergio was cautious when he felt El Blanco’s hoofs take off the bottom, but soon enjoyed seeing the horse embrace the water and move there naturally. He kept afloat above his back, holding on to the short stretch of reins, but when Gareth gave him and encouraging look, he let himself float further, keeping a close eye on the horses’ movements – he certainly didn’t want to get crushed between the big animals in the water.

Gareth gathered Del’s reins tighter and started leading her back to the shore. When his feet reached the bottom, he simply walked the mare back to the sunny meadow, far enough from their clothes to keep the water dripping from her on them. The horse started grazing the green grass, and soon Sergio followed them with the other horse.

Gareth offered the dripping man a canteen he had with him for a sip of water. “Our turn”, he said, winking an eye at Sergio. “Follow me.”

Sergio watched the Welshman wade into the clear water. Gareth’s usual walk was a brisk, masculine stride but the water slowed his steps to a swaying stroll that made his lovely white ass rock almost seductively – was he doing it on purpose? Sergio wondered.

Waist deep, Gareth extended his arms over his head and dove headfirst in the water. Sergio snapped out of his trance and followed him, swimming fast to catch him.

Gareth headed straight to the other end of the lake and to Sergio’s surprise he took a dive right before the waterfall and when he didn’t resurface, Sergio concluded he had dived to the other side. He couldn’t but follow.

The falling water pushed him down and the current pulled his legs backwards but he fought his way through. Before he fully regained orientation on the backside of the waterfall he felt a hand around his wrist; he lifted his head above the water and saw Gareth standing in chest deep water, smiling at him.

Gareth pulled him easily closer. Sergio found steady rocks under his feet, stood up and let Gareth pull him to a deep kiss, literally dripping wet.

The water made everything feel so different: weightless, slippery. Gareth’s body was the same as before, toned and strong, so matching to Sergio’s in size and shape, but the slick, close feel of his cool, wet skin was new, exhilarating.

Sergio couldn’t tell if it was the place or the situation, or if it was a conscious choice on Gareth’s behalf, but what was the most different of all was the Welshman himself. He let all his guards down; he was pliant and responsive to every touch, reciprocated every move passionately, undulating and rolling against Sergio’s body like a force of nature, licking drops of water off his skin with tender curiosity.

Their voices, the splashing of water around their bodies and the sounds of their kisses echoed in the small space, partly drowned by the wash of falling water. The place behind the waterfall was a small cave on the side of the cliff; the water-covered area they were standing on was surrounded by a shelf-like horizontal floor of flat stone on one side and the back of the cave.

Sergio turned Gareth around, as easily leading a dance partner, kissed and bit his neck. “Is it all right if I…?” he asked quietly in his ear and Gareth turned his face back over his shoulder for a kiss as a sign of agreement. “Oh yes, Sergio”, he sighed, eyes reflecting the cool blue hue of the light in the cave. “What do you think I took you here for?”

Sergio chuckled into the wet hair in the back of Gareth’s head, glided his hand up and down the lean, hard muscles on both sides of Gareth’s spine and gently bent him over the cool, smooth surface of the cliff.

If Gareth knew he would be sore on the ride back home, he certainly didn’t mind. He clawed at the thin layer of soft green moss on the grey stone, feeling nothing but deep pleasure and love.

 

“I’ve never been in a place like this”, Sergio said when they had climbed on the flat rock to gather the strength to swim back to the horses and ride home before dark.

Gareth told he had found the cave when he was a little boy, exploring the woods and fields surrounding his home.

“I was told later that this may have been a hideout for ancient Celtic warriors that fought against Roman invasion”, he said.

Sergio dug his fingers in Gareth’s dark locks, and let his gaze wander down his pale, freckled body, covered in places with short black hair.

“Celtic warriors”, Sergio repeated and looked smiling in Gareth’s icy blue eyes. “I like that.”

Gareth leaned in to kiss his lips.

“I thought you would”, he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave the femme fatale a name for the ease of writing, just something I thought sounded pretty from a list of Portuguese first names.
> 
> I'm not a rider myself, so if there are major errors in the swimming scene, sorry! I'll be happy to make corrections if needed.
> 
> Your comments and kudos have been really heartwarming and encouraging, feedback always brightens my days! <3


	13. Salvation and sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is my half-year anniversary as a fanfic writer, exactly 6 months since I posted the first chapter of my first work (Dream Talk Night Day, still my masterpiece).
> 
> I decided not to be very detailed about farming here but I think that Gareth makes loose hay. I know it’s stupid but I have enormous trouble with the thought of Bale using a baler to make bales.
> 
> It's a short chapter but includes some big news.

 

**Marseille, summer 1945**

 

Iker has weighed and pondered his chances and he knows this is the only way he is going to have a future. He looks at the gate in the darkness, on the outskirts of the busy Mediterranean town.

His arm and wrist took some time to heal but they’re working fine now. He knows he can still fight and shoot.

Iker Casillas is a soldier; that’s all he has ever been, that’s the only thing he knows how to be.

 

A grenade explosion made him lose his consciousness in his last battle. He woke up in the silent battlefield, barely able to tell the humming of his own eardrums, recovering after the blast, from the wind swishing the leaves of the sparse trees of the thin forest.

His arm ached painfully and hung helplessly on his side. He crawled on one hand and two knees to the direction of the road.

Iker didn’t know how it had gone with his side. He saw nobody, anywhere. At least by now nobody had come for him; whether they would, was uncertain. Whether the enemy was still nearby, was uncertain. He had to be cautious.

Iker crawled and rested; crawled and rested.

The pain was sharp but it didn’t cloud his mind. He progressed slowly. He had time to think.

The war was wearing thin, he knew that much from the news. Maybe being lost on the battlefield right now was a blessing in disguise.

His hunch was right. In a matter of weeks Germany fell. He was already hundreds of kilometers down south; luck or fate had thrown help his way in the form of a retired country doctor who had a soft spot for the résistance and for exiled Spanish republicans. The old man mended his arm as well as he could after Iker had dared to hitch a lucky ride in his worn-down truck.

 

Iker wonders, as he has for countless times during the past few months, if he should somehow try to notify Sergio about his plan, or at least about being alive. But as always, his reasoning arrives at the same, painful conclusion: for the safety of the both of them, their paths must part.

Of course he knows that Sergio has no more chances to go back to Spain than Iker himself, and will have a hard time thinking about his future after the war.

But future is the key word here. Sergio is younger. War is Iker’s drug of choice, but Sergio has still years to come clean. He is skillful and connected, he will find some meaningful work, a meaningful life.

And who’s to say Sergio has to stay out of Spain for the rest of his life? Hitler and Mussolini were eventually taken down; it is possible that the same fate will meet the likes of Franco, too. Or Stalin, Iker thinks; discussions he has had with some Russian soldiers have disillusioned the devoted socialist enough to cross fleeing to Soviet Union off the list of his future destinations.

The options have narrowed down to this gate in Marseille. If he is accepted, the Iker Casillas that has lived, loved and become missing in action ceases to be as he steps into a new, anonymous life under a new, assumed name.

There is only one way to find out if this is his chance, and it starts with a knock on the door of the recruiting office of the French Foreign Legion.

 

***

 

The next morning Mass started with notably less commotion than the previous one. Father Cristiano was already praying inside the church before Gareth came in with some fresh flowers for the altar.

Gareth seemed relaxed and happy; he smiled graciously at the priest who he had glared at so angrily only a day before, and at Angel James, who was preparing to attend altar service in a fitting borrowed cassock and the surplice that had been his only coverage when Gareth had last met him.

Some parishioners were curious about the stranger whose features seemed oddly familiar, but they settled with Gareth telling them that he was an old friend of father Ronaldo, visiting the priest in his new parish.

“I got the impression he is considering the vocation of priesthood”, Gareth said to the nosiest ones that gathered into a gossiping circle around him in the churchyard, praying his lie wasn’t too harsh.

The new altar servant had already gone back to the garden of the rectory, whereas father Cristiano was hurrying to his office duties. The life in the village was budding and buzzing towards a brighter, busier future: appointments had already been made with the new priest to discuss weddings and baptisms, signs of life.

 

The angel’s dress sense was clearly dictated by comfort and unique aesthetics of a creature who had never had to be concerned about dressing himself before. It had little to do with fashion or customs, modern or traditional.

He knew he had to keep himself covered, and he had learned that choir clothes were restricted to use in church only so he had left the borrowed surplice back to sacristy after Mass. Mostly he wandered around in loose, light blue jeans dungarees that father Cristiano had used for work around the house or the church garden in his former parish.

James seldom bothered, however, dressing a shirt under the dungarees, which left the markings and scriptures on his lucid skin openly visible. Sometimes he, like absentmindedly, kept his wings out; they curved in all their glory from both sides of the faded denim suspenders on his back.

Cristiano didn’t mind the lack of shirt; when they were private, he quite liked sliding his hand under the suspenders and stroking the smooth skin on James’ back.

It made the angel smile his bright smile at him.

 

***

 

Sergio had spent his morning in the rectory office. Gareth caught him walking back to his cottage and touched the familiar, flannel-clad shoulder, enjoying the warmth and strength under his hand.

Sergio turned his face to the touch; the look in his brown eyes showed such mixture of emotions that the beaming, carefree smile that had kept lingering on Gareth’s whole face dimmed down. The sorrow, longing and hope combined could only tell one thing.

“You had news”, Gareth said, unable to ooze a drop of enthusiasm in his flat voice and feeling a pang of quilt over it.

Sergio nodded his head slowly up and down, uncharacteristically quiet, Gareth’s mixed feelings building an unnerving knot of emotions inside his own chest.

“Yes. Let’s talk more inside.”

Gareth set a jug of water and two glasses on his table, mouth dry but the ball of worry in the pit of his stomach telling he wouldn’t be able to eat anything. He’d fix Sergio something later, right now he was too nervous to think about food.

“Somebody has recognized him in Marseille. It’s a reliable source.” Sergio sat down on a wooden chair, elbows on his knees, rubbing the palms of his tattooed hands together.

“And?” Gareth’s throat didn’t give in for saying anything more.

“He was seen going to the office of _La Légion étrangère – “_

“The Foreign Legion?”

Sergio nodded again. He looked down on his laced fingers and lifted his serious eyes to meet Gareth’s.

“I have to go there. I have to leave soon. He was seen yesterday or the day before. He will be in the Selection Center near Marseille maybe a week. It will be hard to reach him there but when he gets sent to actual training or service, it will be impossible.”

“How can you be sure it was him?” Gareth asked in a quiet voice.

“I can’t”, Sergio said, “but I have to try.”

Gareth swallowed hard. “I wish you luck. I will miss you, but I will pray for you.”

Sergio stood up and pulled Gareth up by his hand, closing him in a tight embrace. “I know you will.”

Gareth lifted his head to look into Sergio’s eyes for a moment. “I know I shouldn’t ask this… but what would he think about this? Us? If he knew?”

Sergio brushed Gareth’s unruly hair with his hand, a warm, melancholy smile on his lips. “You know how we feel about it. Love should be free, free of ownership, have nothing to do with possessiveness.”

Gareth buried his face back in the crook of Sergio’s neck. “I know”, he mumbled into his soft plaid shirt. “I respect your view. But I don’t know if I can share it.”

He wasn’t sure if Sergio heard it, but for a moment he pulled Gareth closer, to a hug so tight he could hardly breathe.

Like months before for the first time, Gareth felt kisses, hot as drops of wax from burning candles, on his hair and face. “You sweet man, dear Gareth”, he heard Sergio whisper. “I will come back to see you. With or without him, I’ll be back.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't lie to you. I love comments and need kudos. Feedback is fuel. Be the 12th player.


	14. Love and War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They say all is fair in love and war_  
>  _But that ain't true, it's wrong_  
>  (Love and War - Brad Paisley & John Fogerty, 2017)
> 
>  
> 
> Gareth misses Sergio and talks about Jesus with Father Cristiano.
> 
> Sergio flies south in search of Iker.
> 
> Angel James makes Father Cristiano doubt his calling.
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank Brad Paisley for making me cry and return to this fic. More detailed (and possibly embarrassingly personal) explanation in the end notes.

  

The workload was only welcome.

Gareth knew Sergio would have offered valuable help in the tiresome labour of loading dried hay in carriages with a pitchfork, and unloading the loads in barns but now that Sergio was gone Gareth was only happy to have to toil in the fields and barnyard with his father, Martin and Mariano. Salty sweat, dirt, dust and pieces of hay stung and tingled on his skin and if there occasionally was a burning sensation in his eyes or moist drops on his cheeks, well, it couldn’t have been anything but the sweat rolling down from his forehead under the blazing sun.

Father Cristiano met Gareth in the church when the day was ebbing out, sun setting down and sending its rays low through the stained glass windows. Gareth was down on a kneeler, joined hands leaning on the wooden railing, watery eyes cast down somewhere in the meeting point of the cool slate floor and thick grey walls, apparently looking more inwards than at anything that was before him.

Sergio was probably already in France, perhaps even in his southern destination, either Marseille or Aubagne. Father Cristiano had been of great help: he had a friend in a monastery that had a rare possession, a small airplane that was used for charity work in hard-to-reach mountain areas, and had convinced the brother that handled the plane to take Sergio wherever he wanted. An envelope full of money had certainly done its part of the persuasion. Cristiano had refused to accept a paycheck for his work as a priest and told Gareth that his mother’s money could be used to pay the telephone bills of the rectory as well as Sergio’s travel costs.

“I get food and lodging for free, and what other expenses do I have? I can cover them with my savings. And after all, he is going to take my letter to Lisbon on the same trip”, the priest had said like he was talking about the most uncomplicated, everyday errand.

Sergio had driven to from Wales to Dover on his motorcycle, taken it over the English Channel on a ship, and the monastery was only a rough one-hour drive south of Calais.

Gareth was uncertain what he wished Sergio to find on his quest. The sight of Iker Casillas could easily have been a false lead. But if it wasn’t, it was nearly impossible to comprehend why Iker would have done such an act of disappearance without any kind of message to his fellow soldiers, let alone his long-time partner.

Could it be that he had been wounded in the head and had amnesia? Or had he really deserted Sergio deliberately? To Gareth the latter option seemed unreasonably cruel and unfair, whatever the reason was.

Maybe Iker had been captured by the enemy and been led astray, told lies about the destiny of his fellow fighters. Maybe he was under the misconception that he was alone and the others had been killed.

There was no way of knowing, and judging by the way the thoughts bothered Gareth’s mind, to Sergio they had to be torturous. That made Gareth hope that his friend – no, the man he loved more than a friend – would find an explanation, would find closure.

But on the other hand, finding closure wasn’t possible without Sergio finding Iker as well. It was a thought that really tore Gareth in two: for him, Sergio and Iker getting back together would have a very likely consequence of Sergio disappearing from his life for good. But on the other hand, he remembered vividly the pain on Sergio’s face when he had told he didn’t know whether Iker was alive or dead; if he loved Sergio, he should want to wash that pain away.

Even if it meant losing Sergio.

The problem was that he wasn’t sure what he wished for. He felt obliged to hope that Sergio would find Iker and felt guilty when he couldn’t find himself to purely wish it from the bottom of his heart. A part of him wanted just the opposite: Sergio who had never heard that there were signs that Iker was alive, who would stay by his side, the memory of Iker slowly fading into the background, merge in the tapestry that was their shared history, shared past; someone they would always remember with warmth but most of all, someone they would remember together.

How selfish was it to want that?

 

Father Cristiano touched the kneeling Welshman’s shoulder lightly.

“I don’t want to disturb your prayer, but is there something you’d like to talk about, Gareth? I’m willing to listen, if it could help you”, he offered.

Gareth stayed silent for a moment, crossed himself, stood up ponderously and sat himself on the front row pew in unwieldy movements, strained from the day of hard work. Father Cristiano sat down next to him, leaving a distance he considered comfortable not to interfere with Gareth’s personal space but close enough to reach out and touch him if it seemed that he could use a friendly pat on the shoulder. He waited for the man to speak, looking empathically at his profile.

He had a feeling that Gareth seldom looked this forlorn; the posterior of his wide square shoulders appeared dropped down, his dexterous hands dangled idly over his strong, muscled thighs, like he was unfitting and uneasy on the narrow wooden bench.

“You miss him”, Father Cristiano worded softly. “You fear you’re going to suffer another loss of someone you love.”

The words hit to the core of Gareth’s heart with surgical accuracy. With a deep sigh, he nodded his head slowly.

“You’re right. I only wish it was all, but it’s not.”

“Why is it not, Gareth?” the priest asked.

Gareth stretched his back to lean it to the hard wooden backrest of the pew and looked desolately up in the air.

“I feel that my emotions are not justified. Like they’re wrong on every account. The fear of losing him tells I want to own a person who despises possessive love. Even loving and missing him the way I miss him”, Gareth glanced at the priest next to him, “is a sin according to everything I’ve been taught my whole life.”

He bowed his head down, wringing his hands together. “I’m tired of feeling things I’m not supposed to feel. But it just goes on and on. The more I hurt, the harder I have to hide my hurt”, he said. “I lost my fiancée in a totally mindless, unjust way, the way almost everyone in our nation has lost someone they know, but all we’ve been told is to keep calm and carry on. I’ve seen people die and I’ve _made_ people, actual human individuals, die in painful, horrible ways but only been told to be proud of my bravery. And now this – another time all I can do is to press it down, hide my sorrow and fear. My – love. Because it’s wrong.”

Father Cristiano glanced at Gareth sharply. “Is love ever wrong?” he asked.

Gareth shrugged his shoulders weakly, keeping his gaze hanging down like he was tired to his bones.

The tone of Father Cristiano’s voice turned almost apologetic when he continued. “You know I’m not really in the position to condemn any of your actions. And I know you may find it hard to trust me as a priest. I’m not the best representative to act in the person of Christ, but if you have even a little faith in me as a man, I can say from my heart that I can’t see you having done anything wrong. Feelings – if they are not malicious, they should never be assessed _wrong_ ”, he said.

Gareth glanced at Cristiano sidelong and moved his gaze to the large wooden crucifix above the altar. “Funny you should talk about Christ”, he said.

“Well, that’s what we priests do”, Cristiano cut in.

Gareth shook his head. “You’re the one of us who has studied theology. But what I meant is that I don’t know if Jesus would have anything bad to say about you. I’ve always loved Him first and foremost because He was a man, a human. A man who was executed as a criminal because he talked about love and mercy.” He looked up at the carved, compassionate face surrounded by the crown of thorns.

“That’s a good thought”, Father Cristiano said, feeling warmth towards the man who sat by his side. “That’s the Christ your heart should talk to.”

“I know”, Gareth said, “And I do.”

He still missed Sergio but felt less desolate. Funny, he thought, and chuckled.

“What are you smiling about?” Father Cristiano asked.

“Pardon me saying this”, Gareth answered, “But I was just thinking how having such a flawed priest in our parish can prove to be such a blessing in disguise for me personally.”

 

***

 

Sergio waited. It was all he could do by now. Iker would come to him if he wanted; if he didn’t appear for a couple of days, Sergio would have to take another kind of action.

The flight had been bumpy but Sergio appreciated the days of traveling it had saved him. He was grateful for the priest’s generosity; Father Ronaldo had listened to his travel plans very closely and sincerely and said that it was no problem that he stopped in France first, and that he could take the days he needed; Ronaldo’s letter could bear the few extra days.

Sergio had surveilled the Foreign Legion headquarters for a day to make an informed decision of what to do next. He noticed few people going in or out; a small group of soldiers in their distinguishing uniforms complete with the white _kepi_ headdress, led by an officer; a couple of officers, and later one young man in regular street clothes, followed soon by two others.

Sergio concluded that the latter three had been rejected applicants. He kept an eye of them leaving and followed them from a distance. It wasn’t hard to guess where they were heading; soon he met the trio in a local tavern. He asked to sit in their table and soon engaged in a friendly chat with the international group. After bonding over some wartime stories he had bought them enough drinks to hear a fair deal about the Foreign Legion selection process from them.

The most important piece of information was that yes, there had been an older Spanish soldier applying to the Legion with them, one whose appearance matched Sergio’s description of Iker.

“He’ll definitely make it to the training, and through it on a fast track”, one of them said and the two nodded in agreement.

“Yes, you could see he was a tough one, with some real combat experience on him. I’d guess he’s been an officer. He certainly had been to military before, and they’re after that in the Legion”, another one said.

Sergio got one of the boys to return to the center with an excuse of having forgotten something there, and bribe an official to take a written note to Iker. Sergio’s letter was simple; he pleaded Iker to come talk to him and told he would be waiting for him in a specific place, under a group of trees near the headquarters. He would be there from six PM to midnight every night, he wrote, but just in case, he spent most of the daytime there, too. In case Iker could make it further to see him, he enclosed the name and the address of the modest inn he had got a room from to get some sleep.

He spent his first six hours in the woods alone before returning to his room and barely slept because every time a tree branch rattled against his window he almost thought it would be Iker knocking on the glass.

He was tired the next day but went to his post nevertheless, with some bread and a water canteen to keep himself refreshed.

When the next night started falling and Sergio had waited for another three hours, he started doubting if his letter had reached Iker at all. He wondered if he should make his next move as soon as the clock stroke over midnight: go knock on the gate of the Legion and express his willingness to join the force. He had no interest in actually going through the selection process, let alone servicing for years in a foreign army, but if it was the only way to get close to Iker, he would act interested as long as needed.

He sighed, stretched his back, pressing it against the bark of the oak he was leaning to and looked at the full moon that lit the area eerily, like a cold white lightbulb.

A slight rattle of branches to the right of him caught his attention and he instinctively turned his head to the way of the sound.

Moonlit Iker Casillas approached him uphill.

 

***

 

Father Cristiano didn’t notice James hiding behind his bedroom door. Completely unguarded, he felt tickling fingers over his ribs and huffs of warm breath on the nape of his neck as soon as he entered the room at night.

He folded forward from laughing, tried to duck away from the tickling but soon gave up and turned around inside the circle of James' arms. His lips curled into a fond smile.

“What am I going to do with you”, he said to the angel, undoing his white collar and starting to unbutton his black cassock from the top down.

A wide smile lit the angel’s boyish face and he looked intently at Cristiano’s lips. Well, that was one very good suggestion, Cristiano thought, and kissed James.

Something about it felt so natural, almost too easy, the priest thought. The physical intimacy made him feel at ease in a profound way; safe, relaxed, peaceful, belonging.

_Home_. It was the most accurate word for it, he realized.

Cristiano detached himself from James to remove his cassock. He kept from looking at the angel, stayed silent in his thoughts, as he hung the black robe neatly on a coat hanger and placed it on a hook up on the wall.

Angel James sat warily down on the edge of the bed. The mattress didn’t rustle under his weight; his movement was as light as thin air.

Cristiano finally sat down next to him in his vest and boxer shorts, but kept looking down, vaguely to the direction of his knees.

“Gareth Bale called me a flawed priest”, he said.

James turned his empathic gaze at the side of the priest’s face. “How did it make you feel?” he asked.

“I wasn’t that offended, I could see where he was coming from and couldn’t honestly disagree with him. Still it stung a bit.”

“Why, Cristiano?” James asked.

“I strive for flawlessness”, Cristiano said with a grin but his attempt at a joking tone failed because of the underlying truth of his words.

“You know that priesthood is not about the priest”, James said gently.

Cristiano nodded his head. “Of course. But it’s all I have ever worked for. It’s the reason I took the journey here.”

He felt the angel’s hand on his shoulder, radiating its soothing warmth in his body that had slightly begun to tense from the discomfort of his thoughts; he wouldn’t have realized how tense he was if it wasn’t for the hand offering the relaxing contrast.

Cristiano turned his gaze to James and studied his face.

“I’m not complaining but I thought you were to be the answer to my prayers. But it seems I’ve only got in an even deeper mess, raising doubts in the nearest co-worker I have in this parish. Maybe even in myself.”

“I’m here to guide you and help you”, the angel said softly. “But do you really think I’m here for you as a priest?”

The room felt suddenly very luminous, like invisible candles were lit in the presence of James. When he continued talking, Cristiano saw his beautiful lips moving but his husky voice was accompanied by the silvery chime that had marked his speech the first time he had emerged in the church.

Cristiano could hear the words inside and all around him.

“Have I ever addressed you as _Father_?” the angel asked. “Who are you, Cristiano? The true you?”

 

***

 

Iker’s face looked a bit tired around the eyes and the edges of his lips, hardened compared to what it had been when Sergio had last met him although it was only a few months ago. Everything else about his presence was familiar. Iker was the same he had ever been: charismatic and brilliant to the core, an aura of wit and leadership around him, a distinct streak of kindness and compassion rounding his edges.

Sergio stood up silently to greet him with a tight hug. He felt a temptation to just stand in that embrace, feel the strong arms around his shoulders for hours, letting go of all the painful questions, forgetting and forgiving the sense of betrayal that, like a thin sharp needle, poked little holes in the smooth surface of relieved happiness of being reunited with Iker.

It was Iker who released the embrace first.

“Sergio”, he said, taking the younger Spaniard’s face between his large, warm hands.

Sergio smiled despite himself.

“You came, Iker”, he said.

He took Iker’s hand to lead him further in the shadow of the trees. The place was calm and quiet but Sergio didn’t want to risk being seen.

He sat down on the grass that was cooling down for the night, pulling Iker to sit next to him. They had sat like this for countless times, on hunting trips, keeping watch together in their times of guerilla warfare, always outdoors, in the nature. It had always been their time, out of the cramped tents, barracks and bunkers or ad hoc living quarters in squatted houses they had been used to.

Sergio forced his eyes to a stern gaze and looked Iker in the eye. The older man’s eyes gleamed under his sculpted brows in the dance of the tree branches shadowing the bright moonlight.

“Why did you leave like that? How could you do it to me, to all of us?” Sergio asked.

Iker looked back in his eyes.

“Did I really desert you? What happened after I left?” he asked in response.

Sergio knew what Iker meant: the battles had ended, there was nothing Iker would have been needed for.

“But you must have known how I would feel. I searched for you for days, weeks. I was devastated because I didn’t know whether you were dead or alive or wounded. Now I know you disappeared out of your own free will; you’re here so you haven’t lost your memory or been taken hostage”, Sergio said. “You. Left. Me. On. Purpose”, he said, stressing each word pointing his finger at Iker.

“I’m sorry you feel that way”, Iker said. “But this was the only choice.”

“The only choice?” Sergio couldn’t help his voice rising from astonishment. “You understand they will ship you out to whatever war France is fighting, anywhere in the world? We used to fight for a cause. You used to fight for a cause and for your commitment and passion I would have followed you anywhere. And I did. In Spain, and with the résistance. I can’t understand _this_ is what you want now”, Sergio gestured to Iker’s khaki shirt and trousers.

“This is my life. It’s what I know. It’s what I can do”, Iker said and Sergio sensed he started to withdraw from the subject; it would be fruitless to continue the argument

Sergio huffed, fiddled with leaves of grass by his foot and turned back to look at Iker.

“How did you get here?” he asked to get back to a neutral zone in their conversation.

Iker told the tale of his journey: the concussion and arm injury, the hitch-hiking, recovery time in the old doctor’s house, his eventual decision to head south.

Sergio told about his life, transporting shady parcels from people he hardly knew to others for pay, on a grey area fringing criminal activity and post-war cautiousness of societies in transition.

“Latest one was an exceptionally easy one, taking a sort of a secret donation to a catholic parish in Wales. And you wouldn’t believe who lived there and took hold of the money?”

“Gareth?” Iker said immediately. It was the only name he associated with Wales; Sergio could have referred to some of the other Welsh volunteers but Iker couldn’t remember any of their faces or names any more, and he doubted Sergio could either.

“Exactly. I stayed at his place for some days before I heard of you and got another delivery gig, so to say. He has a nice place there, farms the church’s grounds with his parents.”

Iker remembered Gareth well; even though the young Welsh soldier had rarely talked about his civilian personal life, there had always been that bond between all three of them that he considered a deep, trusting friendship, ever since Gareth had saved his and Sergio’s life all those years ago.

“Gareth”, Iker said warmly, “He was quite a shot. Such a brave boy, and the things he did for someone so young.”

Sergio nodded quietly and looked into the dark night. It was like Iker was talking about a totally different Gareth from the one Sergio had learned to know in the past few days.

Gareth making him feel at home in his humble, cozy cottage, surprising him with swimming trips and tales of ancient Celtic warriors. Gareth fighting inner battles and overcoming them with an astounding ability to rearrange the pieces of his thinking about the very core values of his life, about his conceptions of faith and love. Could Sergio ever explain the wonder of that all to Iker? Would Iker understand if Sergio tried to – and in the end, would it even be his business?

“I think I’m going back to see him after this trip”, was all Sergio said.

“Give my love to him”, Iker said and extended his hand to touch Sergio’s hair.

Sergio let him do it, studied the handsome face, tracing Iker’s statuesque cheekbones, eyes and lips with his gaze.

Iker leaned in to kiss him.

Sergio reciprocated eagerly, enjoyed the touch of the lips he had loved more than almost anything for most years of his adult life.

At the same time, the kiss was long enough to make him think; think about the subtle differences between such close concepts as right and fair, and good and right.

Iker’s decision to leave and the way he had executed it was right for Iker but it wasn’t fair for any other of them.

And kissing Iker sure felt good but it didn’t feel right, not any more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Country music has a peculiar way of getting under my skin. Most of the (rare!) times a song has made me cry, like shed real tears streaming helplessly down my face, on the first time I hear it, it’s been a country song, even though it’s a genre I don’t follow or listen to on a regular basis. It’s happened with “You gonna miss this” by Trace Adkins and “Lay Me Down” (a new version, ca 2016 I think) by Loretta Lynn and Willie Nelson.
> 
> Last time it was a song I heard on the radio quite recently. I didn’t recognize the singers (even John Fogerty which I’m a bit ashamed of!) but fortunately the dj told who it was. 
> 
> But it was instant waterworks before the end of the first verse:  
> “He was nineteen  
> When he landed at Bagram  
> Scared and all alone  
> He lost a leg and a girlfriend  
> Before he got home”  
> (Bagram is a US military air base in Afghanistan, I googled it.)
> 
> I was driving and I just cried and wiped my cheeks over and over again.
> 
> And it made me think how little I’ve dealt with war in this fic and how lightly I’m taking it, the badass attitude of my main characters where they don’t deal with psychological trauma, painful flashbacks, nightmares and that kind of aftershocks is perhaps even irresponsibly superficial. It’s important that I acknowledge it here even though I may not be able to write it into the story.
> 
> The verses that made me think about this fic and inspired me to write some of the things in this chapter were especially these:
> 
> “They call 'em decorated heroes  
> And pin some medals on their chest  
> Give 'em a tiny little pension  
> Could we do much less”  
> and  
> “And the nightmares  
> And he's running scared  
> Far from home  
> And he wakes up  
> From a nightmare  
> He's in another one  
> He's still not home”
> 
> I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this exact song is a collaboration with John Fogerty, as is seen in this live video.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7R-Ajuhh9aU 
> 
> God bless country music.


	15. Ascensio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lord, now you let your servant go in peace;_   
>  _Your word has been fulfilled._
> 
> (Nunc Dimittis, from Luke 2:29–32)

 

Gareth heard a distinctive thud of a foot hitting a ball, followed by running footsteps, shouts and laughs.

“Ow, that’s not fair!” he heard Martin complaining through a heavy pant and got to the wooden fence just in time for a hilarious sight, Father Cristiano bowing down in his long black cassock inside a football goal, picking up a ball from the back of the net.

“Okay, let’s try again!” he said to the two boys who were in more sporty attires on the green field.

The football field was located behind the churchyard, alongside the narrow alley between the rectory and the church. It was surrounded by simple wooden fences, longer grass growing under them, lawn on the actual pitch neat and short wherever it grew; some bare patches of dry, sandy dirt dotted it here and there. If the soil of the spot had been richer, it would probably have been reserved for a more productive use.

Cristiano was apparently in the middle of a little 1 – on – 2-game with the boys and had just scored in the goal they were trying to protect. He took the ball back to the middle of the pitch.

“I’ll do it just the same this time, it shouldn’t be too hard to take it away”, he advised and started his offense again.

Gareth had never seen anybody dribble a ball quite like their priest. It wasn’t only because of his clothing, but he had to admit that the flowing black skirt of the cassock brought its own magical vibe to the scene: it was like the ball was under a spell, controlled by an invisible magnetic field marked by the black hem that wavered above the ground, around the agilely moving feet.

Mariano pressed Cristiano to the left side of the pitch but the priest averted him with a quick turn to the right, protecting the ball neatly with his feet. Martin was alert and ready between the priest and the goal and ran forward to challenge him, eyes strictly on the ball, but Cristiano picked up the pace just enough to get past him and netted the ball.

Martin went to slap Mariano in the shoulder. “Sorry, mate, I thought I would get him.”

Gareth clapped his hands behind the fence. “Some fancy footwork, Father! But you’re definitely not dressed right for this. Don’t you have anything else to wear?” he shouted to the priest.

Cristiano waved his hand to him, picked the ball again from the goal, kicked it to the boys and walked towards Gareth in frisky steps, a smile on his face.

“I wasn’t going to stay”, he said, sweeping a runaway curl back from his slightly sweaty forehead, trying to smooth it the right way from his neat side-parting, along with the slick, pomade-bound coiffure. “I was only returning their ball after they had kicked it over the fence.”

“Yes, he kicked it in from over there”, Martin explained, pointing at a spot on the alley, a fair distance behind Gareth’s back.

Gareth turned his gaze back at Cristiano who was now leaning to the opposite side of the fence, smiling. “And you couldn’t resist giving them a little show of you skills?” Gareth asked.

“Well, you haven’t had time to try a little kickabout with me, have you?” Cristiano replied.

Martin and Mariano came to the fence to cut in their chat.

“You have some God-given supernatural powers you haven’t told about”, Mariano said accusingly, nudging Father Cristiano’s black-clad elbow with his own. The priest was not taken aback by the boy’s casual behaviour, on the contrary; he mussed Mariano’s curly tresses with his hand and chuckled.

“Yes. The supernatural powers of practice”, he said. “Nothing you can’t do if you work for it.”

Mariano rolled his eyes. “Yeah, work!” he glared at Gareth. “Like we had time with the workload his dad puts on us.”

“That’s just an excuse”, Cristiano said. “Look, how about this? I show you a simple exercise. You only have to do it 50 times a day and in ten days you will have done it 500 times. After 20 days, you have a thousand repeats.”

“Fifty times?” Mariano looked at the priest like he was out of his mind. “Like I said, the workload…”

Cristiano lifted his finger and cut in. “No no, listen. Twenty after Mass, ten before lunch, twenty after dinner. For example. There’s always time if you want to find it.”

Mariano shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “If you say so.“

“I say so”, Cristiano said. “Look, do you remember when you were a little kid? Whenever you saw a ball, didn’t you just kick it without thinking? Or kick a rock or a pine cone or an acorn when walking to make a walk to the school more interesting? I know I did. I don’t know why we stop doing it”, he said and saw the boys listening to him attentively.

“I went with a ball everywhere”, the priest continued. ”Before I got a real ball from a shop I bundled up crushed paper and wrapped all the pieces of string I could find around it as tight as I could. Then when I got a real football it became my best friend. I ran to church dribbling it, left it under the stairs and after the service or Sunday school or choir practice, whatever we were in the church for, I would walk back home kicking it or we would set up a game on the street.”

“Didn’t anybody steal it?” Martin asked.

Cristiano looked at him. “Why would they? I was up for a game with that ball any time anyway. There was no point for anybody to steal it from me, it would have been taking it away from everybody. That was the reason that the ball existed, the game, playing together. Kicking it alone when I was walking or running to get somewhere was mostly a fun means of transport.”

Cristiano pushed himself up from the fence. “Now excuse me, I’ll have to go and change before we do anything more. He told me to”, he said, nodding his head towards Gareth.

“I’m not giving you any orders!” Gareth defended.

“Neither am I to you”, Cristiano said, looking directly at him, “But I hope you’ll find time for me, too.”

Gareth’s only answer was a wide smile and a promising eyebrow wiggle.

 

Father Cristiano had met Chris Coleman in the church the day before and had had a few words with the mayor (and choir leader, he reminded himself) about the upcoming Sunday Mass. The details had been left somewhat open, but Cristiano was left responsible for asking Mrs. Bale to arrange sandwiches, cake and biscuits with tea and coffee after mass.

“This would be your formal introduction to the people of the parish”, Coleman had said in his thick accent and Cristiano felt impossible to decline or try and talk the event down.

“And of course we will have The Barry Horns present”, the mayor had added, ending the discussion with a firm handshake and a wide smile that had left Cristiano a little bit dubious whether the man was joking or spoke in earnest.

The answer was probably the latter, because the intensity of Coleman’s gaze made it seem like he usually meant what he said.

 

Debbie thought it would be a good idea to set picnic tables on the churchyard because the weather was nice, the possibility of rain almost none.

“If it looks like rain in the morning, it’s easy to move it to the rectory”, she said and Cristiano agreed.

Debbie had, of course, gathered eggs extra carefully for days to have enough for cake batter and egg salad sandwiches, and recruited an armada of neighbourhood children to pick wild raspberries and blackberries. Many parishioners had promised to bring some extra sugar, tea or coffee that were on limited supply because of the rationing; butter, milk and cream had been easier to get from farms that had cows.

“Isn’t it a bit too much?” Cristiano doubted. “I don’t think I deserve such festivities. I’m here to serve, to work for you, and it feels unfair that people should give up anything from their own limited supply”, he said.

Debbie waved her hand at him. “Nonsense”, she said. “Do you really think it’s for you? You’re just an excuse to get together for something light and _normal_ for a change.”

Cristiano couldn’t but smile warmly at her words. “Can I hug you, Debbie?”

“I thought you’d never ask”, Mrs. Bale replied.

 

***

 

“I have to go”, Iker said to Sergio, “I can’t get caught AWOL, I’d fly out without a question.”

“You really wish to go on with this?” Sergio asked.

Iker cupped Sergio’s bearded cheek with his hand.

“You know I do, Sergio”, he said.

Sergio leaned his head to the hand, a part of him wishing he could resist the familiar warm touch, another part wanting to stay there forever.

“How long are going to be in the center?” he asked, looking Iker in the eye.

Iker shrugged his shoulders. “Depends. I’ve been through a lot of tests already, they haven’t been too hard. It’s about other issues now, I think. You know, my only ID was my expired Spanish passport, and I don’t know how officially I’m wanted in Spain and how the Legion will take it if I am. It may become trouble”, he said.

“Will you be turned in to Spain if it happens?” Sergio asked.

Iker shook his head. “I don’t think they’ll do it. From what I’ve heard they’d just kick me out in the middle of the selection with no explanation if they don’t accept people with our background.”

Sergio kept looking at Iker. “Do you think I should stay around here for a couple of days just in case they _do_ kick you out?”

“Could you? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I don’t think I’ll sneak out of the place again. Mostly we’re just waiting around but they call us up for tasks or tests or interviews at random times and I wouldn’t want to risk it again. So chances are we won’t meet again if I get selected and sent to the training.”

Sergio turned to look at the leaves of grass and continued to pick them to pieces with his fingers. What had he been thinking of? That once Iker saw him, he’d realize he was making a mistake of his life, come to his senses and follow Sergio – to what? He didn’t actually have anything more he could call a life than Iker himself.

He turned slowly back to Iker and placed his hand on Iker’s knee. It was warm and solid under his touch and a sense of shared memories shuddered through Sergio, starting from the palm of his hand, like a mild electric shock.

He pushed the feeling down.

“I’ll keep my hotel room until tomorrow. I don’t think I can stay longer if the weather is all right for flying to Portugal. If the flight is delayed, then I’ll stick around longer, of course”, Sergio said eventually.

Iker prioritized other things over Sergio, it was clear. It hurt Sergio in a way he didn’t want to think about too closely. Something inside him said he would have to be the bigger person, give in and wait for Iker as long as it took, until it the last chance was gone; he should be above the petty thought of _two can play this game_.

But right now, he was too hurt, too frustrated and too tired to get over it. He was going to settle with a lame compromise, he realized, but that was all he had strength for.

Sergio dug a piece of paper and a short stub of a pencil out of his back pocket.

“Whatever happens, Iker, don’t go missing again. I’d like to know what goes on with your life. If you have time to write, send me a letter.”

He scribbled something on the paper, frowned his forehead like trying hard to remember something and wrote some more.

“I can’t give you even a Poste Restante contact because I don’t know where I’ll be. But this is Gareth’s address in Wales. I’ll keep in touch with him anyway, so he will tell me if he gets mail from you.” He handed the note to Iker who looked at it, nodded silently and put the paper in his breast pocket.

“Thank you. I promise I won’t forget you”, Iker said.

Sergio sighed. This kind of attempt to their future connection seemed so frail and far-fetched, but it was all he could come up with. Maybe in another kind of time they would have had it easier to stay together, but now it seemed like indisputable forces of history and politics molded their world, narrowing their life choices to a bare minimum.

They helped each other up from the ground and closed each other in a tight, warm embrace, breathing each other’s presence. Sergio felt Iker’s fingers dig in his hair, clenching it tight, pressing their cheeks tight together, Iker’s short stubble scratching where there was bare skin. He gasped and held on to the back of Iker’s shirt with both fists, fighting back tears.

When they finally parted, moonlight reflected from two pairs of dark brown, watery eyes.

“Take care of yourself, Iker. Stay safe”, Sergio said.

“You too, Sergio”, Iker said. “You’re a treasure. Stay true to yourself.”

With that, he left. Sergio followed the wide back, the khaki shirt pale in the moonlight, with his gaze until the light didn’t reach Iker any more in the shadow of the square stone building.

 

***

 

In the evening Cristiano went back to the church to pray the liturgies of the hours. Mr. and Mrs. Bale, Martin and Mariano, Chris Coleman and some neighbours accompanied him for the Vesper; Martin, Mariano, Gareth and James for the Compline.

Gareth’s face caught father Cristiano’s eye several times during the late night prayer. Something in the Welshman’s eyes touched him a great deal.

He had observed Gareth during their days together and noticed that his face was very expressive, easily reflecting and revealing his inner thoughts and emotions. Now it seemed like Gareth was almost struggling to keep devoted to singing, reciting and praying: he was concentrated on keeping a straight face, but father Cristiano could see the battling feelings surfacing in the light blue eyes. He could see glimpses of peace and gratitude at words of certain psalms, but that was not all; just like a breeze blowing over a hayfield, a look of sorrow and pain wavered around his features just as easily.

Cristiano couldn’t say if Gareth was thinking about his own sorrows or if he was feeling someone else’s hurt for them. The priest revered Gareth’s selflessness and appreciated the trust he had shown the night before by opening up about the feelings he had kept suppressed and hidden from people around him.

They sang the culminating Gospel Canticle _Nunc Dimittis_ in a beautiful harmony that made father Cristiano wonder if there really were only five of them.

 

After the others had called it a night father Cristiano stayed in the church with James, slowly putting out candles, picking up a couple of astray petals that had fallen from the flower arrangements embellishing the altar.

He went to undress his surplice and hang it in the sacristy; angel James followed suit with his.

There it was again, the subtle inner glow that seemed to light up the room the angel was in, that settled as a deep warmth under Cristiano’s skin, deep down to his bones, his heart.

Father Cristiano walked slowly through the nave, the angel by his side. When he went out of the heavy doors, he closed them behind him, paused for a minute and sat down on the cold stone stairs in the murky summer night, smoothing the wool fabric of his cassock skirt over his knees.

James sat down by his side, leaning his elbows to his knees, turning his attentive but compassionate face towards the priest.

“I’ve felt so blessed today”, Cristiano said, looking in the angel’s warm brown eyes. He looked up and returned his gaze to the angel. “No, I’ve felt more. I have felt almost overindulged with the way these people are taking me in, the way my life is made easy on all accounts. I – I’ve done nothing to deserve such love.”

“Do you think you need to deserve it?” Angel James asked. “It may be that you don’t know yourself what you are giving them.”

Cristiano took the angel’s hand between his own.

“I know I haven’t deserved what you have given me. You have guarded and soothed and loved me in ways I never knew were possible. More than anybody could ask for. I’m afraid I’ve misused your overwhelming kindness, I know I should never…” he would have rambled on but the angel silenced him by pressing a finger of his free hand on his lips.

“I told you not to question it, Cristiano”, James said, flashing him a smile that maybe was a tad too mischievous for such an angelic face.

“I’ve been selfish to pray help for myself”, Cristiano continued after he had bowed his head slightly as a gesture of compliance and James had lifted his finger off his lips. “There are others who would deserve so much more but who never ask for anything. I should stand on my own two feet, make my own decisions and own them, take responsibility of my actions. I have all the resources to do it in myself.”

James smiled a quiet smile at him, squeezed the hand that held his. Cristiano felt his hand tingle from the energy that the angel emitted.

“Then I think my work here is done”, James whispered.

An array of emotions washed through Cristiano, quiet pride and confidence mixed with uncertainty at the face of the future and fear of being alone again. The wave was quick, however, and soon he felt pure love and a sense of security settling in the back of his mind.

He placed his hand on the other side of the angel’s head, pulled him close and pressed a kiss on the hair on his temple.

“Thank you”, Cristiano said.

He stood up and felt an almost burning heat by his side and instinctively turned his face away from a flash of blinding light that followed, feeling it glow through his eyelids.

Where there had been two handsome men in their black robes sitting on the majestic stone stairs in front of heavy, carved wooden doors was now only one standing, looking up at the night sky.

Cristiano’s hand and lips felt warm in a way that he thought, he hoped, would never cool down.

 

 


	16. Legionnaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iker and Sergio meet a surprise visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi dear readers, hope you’re splendid and swell!  
> I have to clarify one thing that has bothered me for some time now. I hope many of you haven’t even noticed it, but in some reply to a comment I wrote something like “I don’t do tumblr”, implying that there’s too much negativity among the sport fans in social media and if I have offended anyone with this I’m sorry! What actually drags my mind down is usually following a link to a source that is not fan-made material but a web article or a video and the discussion in comments to those, it’s usually there where I come across the hateful and mocking content I can’t stand.  
> The creative force, talent, time, love, wit and sense of humour people, on the other hand, dedicate on producing and sharing the wonderful fan content amaze and inspire me constantly. Thank you, everyone, who contribute to that great entity to bless us all. Cwtch, hugs, kisses, bisous, halit, puss&kram, baci & XOXO to every single one of ya.  
> Of course the real reason I don’t have a tumblr account is that I’m too lazy/busy to take the time to set up a page – I choose to allocate my time that’s left from living a so-called life to writing fics and stalking other people’s blogs.
> 
> That said, hope you like the chapter, too! It's a bit shorter one and sticks to one place this time.

 

”Casillas!”

The commanding voice made Iker jump out of his bunk and stand at attention by its foot.

“ _Oui,_ _Sergent_ ”, he answered, and was gestured to follow the sergeant who had called his name.

The man took Casillas to a sparsely furnished office room; there was a table with chairs on either side, an officer sitting on the one behind it, a folder with papers opened in front of him. Iker recognized his worn-out passport among them.

“At ease, Casillas. Sit down”, the officer said and gestured the non-commissioned officer to his side, whispered something in his ear and dismissed him.

The officer studied the papers for a long time and eventually lifted his eyes to meet Iker’s. Iker knew the man took his time to make him nervous in the hope of getting him reveal more of himself than he wanted to. That didn’t alarm Iker: he felt he had nothing to hide.

“You seem to have trouble with the state of Spain”, the officer said in a deceivingly soft manner.

Iker kept his gaze stern and his voice calm. “That may be”, he said.

“You’re seen as an enemy to your nation. Did you fight on the wrong side?”

“I felt I fought for the lawful government but after any war it’s the winner who gets to define who was wrong and who was right.”

The officer didn’t respond to that; he returned his gaze to the papers, arranging and rearranging them.

Moments passed. Iker sat stoically; he had said his say, it was not up to him how his respond was assessed.

“Casillas.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have previously given us information of your underground service for France during the war. You have named operations you have participated in. Do you have anyone who could confirm them?”

This was the first time Iker hesitated a little, but he did his best to hide it. If the information from this interview – or was it interrogation? – was in danger to end up in the hands of Franco’s government, he could not name Sergio.

“Unfortunately I don’t have contact to my fellow fighters any more”, he said.

If this was to be the end of this road, he would have to find another. It would be hard, but he wouldn’t compromise Sergio’s safety.

 

There was a knock on the door. Iker could hear the voice of the young sergeant who had seen him to the room. The officer behind the desk invited him in.

The sergeant wasn’t alone. Another soldier stepped inside behind him and stood at attention by the door.  His uniform was French but from some other unit than the Foreign Legion. Iker didn’t recognize it, but he sure recognized the young man wearing it.

“At ease, aspirant Zidane. Do you recognize this man?” the officer asked.

“I do, sir”, Enzo said.

The officer picked up Iker’s passport from the table and handed it to the young man. “Does this name match the information you have of this man’s identity?”

Enzo studied the passport page carefully and handed it back to the officer. “It does, sir.”

The officer nodded and cleared his throat. Iker watched the man’s face closely; he was almost certain he could see traces of a smile in the corners of his mouth.

The officer asked where Enzo knew Iker from and the young man told briefly of the battles and operations they had participated together.

“Was your father part of this unit, aspirant Zidane?” the officer asked.

“Yes. He was our leader.”

“If he gives us his evaluation of this man’s character and his performance, do you think it can be trusted?” the officer asked.

“I’m certain of it, sir.”

“Thank you, aspirant. You’re dismissed”, the officer said.

After Enzo had gone outside the officer turned back to Iker.

“I would normally never tell this to a recruit but I trust you that this stays between these walls”, he said. Iker was now quite certain there was a smile trying to reach the surface of the officer’s stony face.

“Zinédine Zidane is the principal of my children’s school in Marseille and coaches their football teams, both boys and girls. I heard a great deal about you from him.”

He fiddled with the papers on his desk again and dug finally out one from the bottom of the folder.

“I offer you a contract for five years of service in the French Foreign Legion. If you sign it, you will start receiving salary counting from tomorrow when you are sent to our training center, The Farm. Your passport and personal belongings stay here with us. You will enlist under declared identity, which can include declared nationality. After your service you can apply for French citizenship.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“As this discussion stays between us, none of your previous connections will mean any softer treatment to you during training. But neither should they make it any harder.”

“I understand, sir.”

 

Iker was dismissed and let back to rest. He was lucky enough to see young Zidane on his way out and asked the accompanying sergeant the permission to talk to his friend.

They were granted a minute and accepted it gratefully.

Enzo told he had been granted a leave overnight to go and visit his family. Iker was happy to hear that. He told Enzo the name of the inn Sergio was staying at.

“It’s not far. Could you go and see if he is still there and tell him I was selected? Tell him I will write to him as soon as I can.”

Enzo promised to do that, and he promised to say hello from Iker to his father and the rest of his family.

“You won’t have it easy”, Enzo said with an empathic look on his face. “I’ve heard that _La Ferme_ is basically about treating you guys like dogs.”

Iker shrugged his shoulders and gave Enzo a crooked smile. “Do you think I’m a stranger to military discipline? It’s just a few weeks to test your guts. Build the _esprit de corps_ by making us hate the guys who drill us. At least they pay me for my trouble”, he said.

Enzo smiled at him but his eyes stayed serious. He knew that behind Iker’s nonchalant tone there was a man who was going to put his life on the line for the next five years. “If anyone makes it, it’s you, Iker. I hope I’ll get to see you again somewhere”, he said.

 

***

 

Sergio heard a knock on the door of his small room, furnished with a narrow bed, a small wooden desk and a porcelain sink in the corner; the shared toilet was along the hallway.

He went to the door to answer it. It opened inwards with a creak.

The patron’s face appeared in the crack of the door.

“You have a visitor, monsieur”, he said.

Hope sparked in Sergio’s chest: could it be Iker? He opened the door a bit further and a mixture of surprise, disappointment and joy washed over his face. It wasn’t Iker but a most unexpected, yet not unwelcome sight: his young fellow soldier from the French résistance, Enzo Zidane.

Sergio shot to the corridor and practically threw himself around the young man, drawing him in a warm, almost suffocating hug. Enzo laughed from the confine of the inked arms.

“You’re wrinkling my travel uniform! I’ll be told off when I return from the leave”, he managed to mumble.

Sergio slowly let him go, ruffling his hair. “Look at you, boy!” he said. “How’s your old man?”

“You can check him out yourself. Would you join us for dinner tonight?” Enzo asked.

“Oh, well, of course! But… I mean where?” Sergio was only slowly starting to wonder how Enzo had found him. Another thought poked the back of his mind: how about Iker? Should he stay posted for him, after all?

“Our home is in Marseille, remember? It’s not a long drive from here. I can get a lift in an army car.”

Sergio looked at Enzo from head to toe. “Yes, army. I heard you got recruited. Are you planning a career out of it?”

Enzo nodded. “Yes. It seemed like the rational choice.”

Sergio gestured him to come inside the room. “I’ll get a clean shirt, all right? But tell me, what brought you here, did you come just to meet your family? And how did you find me?”

Enzo sat on the chair by the desk.

“I was called on a task to the Foreign Legion headquarters. They wanted me to confirm Iker’s identity.”

Sergio stopped fiddling about with the shirt immediately and turned to Enzo.

“You saw Iker?”

“I did. I told them he was who he said he was and he got selected. He wanted me to come and tell you he will join the Legion. He is in there now and will be sent to training early tomorrow. He promised to write you as soon as he can.”

Sergio sat down. This was it. Iker was content with Sergio’s lame compromise of going separate ways but trying to keep in touch.

Maybe it would work out. Maybe this wasn’t the end.

The thought started to settle down in Sergio’s mind. He would miss Iker, but he would have to remember that this had been Iker’s choice. It was in no way an easy way out; it was a hard, rough, dangerous way but still, it was the path Iker had chosen, the one he had worked for. It was important to Iker, important enough to sacrifice a lot.

 _Just get out of it alive,_ Sergio pleaded in his mind. The last thing he wanted Iker to be forced to sacrifice was his life.

But, he thought, on the core level, in the life of a soldier, war was an art of killing to survive. If anybody Sergio knew mastered it, it was Iker. He was calm, stable, sufficiently stubborn but just flexible enough to be built to survive, Sergio consoled himself.

 _He will make it_ , Sergio said to himself.

 _Please let him make it,_ he continued, but didn’t know who he was talking to.

 

***

 

The evening in the Zidanes’ house was pleasant. The ruthless killer and tactical mastermind Sergio had known during the war was invisible here, in the peaceful, beautifully decorated family home in Marseille. The other side of Zidane he had also got to see when the man had led their squad, the trusting, fair and relaxing leader, was much more present in the domestic surroundings.

There were also sides to him that Sergio hadn’t seen earlier. The civilian Zidane was talkative and smiled a lot, he kept a lively conversation about the school life, art and current events. His family was charming; his wife Véronique was as lively and witty as her husband, and Enzo had three younger brothers who still lived at home. The second son, Luca, had already worked as a substitute teacher in his father’s school.

“He is good at his job”, the principal said with pride in his voice. “I wouldn’t have hired him if I didn’t trust he was. But I hope he will go get an education, too.”

 

Zidane asked if Sergio had heard about the rest of their men.

“I wonder what happened to the Welshman, Bale. I hope he got home in one piece – I heard he was sent to some severe battles when he was transferred back to his British unit”, Zidane said.

“Gareth is very alive”, Sergio blurted without a second thought. All eyes around the table turned to him, and he felt his cheeks warm up a bit. Maybe he should have declined the latest refill of his glass, but Zidane’s red wine sure tasted good. “I mean, yes, I found out that he got home. I met him this week.”

“Oh, really? Where?” Zidane’s question sparked from genuine interest; he still cared for all his men.

“I… traveled to his home town in business and got to stay with him a couple of days. It was…” Sergio searched for the right word.

_So much more than I expected._

_In a way, an adventure._

_A breakthrough._

_The closest I have felt to someone in a long time._

_Do you know that feeling when you already love someone like a brother but then suddenly everything just clicks together in a new way and they’re still that safe rock but then it’s surprisingly deep and at the same time hot and sexy and fun?_

“It was pleasant”, Sergio said and took a sip of his wine. “Very enjoyable.”

Zidane smiled and nodded in agreement. “I always thought you worked quite well together. You were… so different and unique but still the same. You balance each other.”

Sergio gave the older man a quick sharp look but turned his eyes pensively in the air, like getting the taste of Zidane’s words.

“I think we do”, he said finally.

Suddenly he couldn’t wait to get on that plane to Lisbon just to get his trip done so he could go –

wait.

Was the word he was thinking about really _home_?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Thanks for reading! If this was a book, you could see that you’re closer to the back cover than the front.  
> A few chapters still to come, though!
> 
> 2) I must say I really enjoyed that Gareth chose to tweet this "let's gangbang Cristiano" picture after the Celta Vigo win (but hated most of the replies from the usual morons).  
> https://twitter.com/GarethBale11/status/864949640512327680
> 
> 3) I'm happy football exists because in hockey we got trashed by Canada yesterday (I really didn't expect anything else and after seeing Mitch Marner's first goal and first assist I was ready to forgive losing to that precious lad to everyone, I loved his skating and moves and shot) and we'll probably get trashed again by USA tomorrow.   
> BOY AM I GLAD TO BE WRONG!
> 
> But Preds are looking nice.


	17. Gwlad beirdd a chantorion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One letter. One Sunday.

 

_Dear Inês,_

_I hope you weren’t startled to have this letter delivered to you this way. I was worried about regular post not reaching you, as letters coming to your house might be opened by your parents or a servant._

_Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought about you. There are days when I am convinced that obeying the wishes of your family and leaving the country to save you from further shame or embarrassment was the right thing to do, but other times I wonder if I should have done something differently._

_But, dear, believe one thing: I never wanted to leave you and if I would have heard even a word of you wishing me to stay, I would not be here. I would be there._

_When it comes to loving you, I don’t regret a thing._

_If you wish to forget all about me, ignore this letter, please. I would very much like to hear what is going on with your life, whether it’s good or bad. You can write to me at the address I enclose under my name, or even better, call the telephone number of the rectory, I write it here under the address with all the needed prefixes for the international connection from Portugal to Wales. Please take a collect call and you don’t have to worry about the cost. Hearing your voice would mean a world to me. Even if you want to use it to scream at me and tell me I ruined your life. If that is the case, I deserve to hear it, and you deserve a chance to say it to me._

_You’re in my heart and in my prayers. Always._

_Love,_

_yours,_

_Cristiano Ronaldo_

 

***

 

The Sunday Mass turned out as a nice combination of homely and festive.

The diocese had sent a priest and a deacon from larger neighbouring parishes to assist father Cristiano in the service so that the church of St. Mary could have a solemn High Mass. On the other hand, Cristiano had decided to trust Chris Coleman and the organist with the music.

Oh yes, the brass band was present, but much to Cristiano’s surprise the sound of the horns didn’t clash with the organ but worked quite well as an accompaniment to the singing.

And the singing itself – the church choir was no bigger than could be expected considering the size of the village, but their voices were strong and musical. Gareth had been doing his usual duty of ringing the bells before the service but had soon gone to join the singers.

The service went through mostly without bumps, but at the very end the dismissal music caught the priest off guard. It did sound like a hymn and the congregation joined it joyously and with full force, but father Cristiano didn’t recognize the melody and couldn’t make out any sense of the words.

 

“What was the last hymn?” he asked Coleman when the congregation had gathered in the churchyard after the Mass.

“Hymn?” the choir leader asked, balancing a tea cup on a saucer in his hand, a questioning look in his almost black eyes.

“The last piece of the dismissal music? I don’t remember if it was on the list when we went through the music sheets.”

Coleman’s face brightened and he smiled showing his buck teeth. “Oh, you meant Hen wlad fy nhadau? I’m sorry if it was left out.”

“What is it? I didn’t understand a word.”

“You don’t know our national anthem? But yes, many of us learn it by heart but never understand the lyrics. It’s Welsh. I gather you don’t have command of the language, either.”

Father Cristiano fought his urge to frown at the words. In his mind he opposed to a lot of what Coleman said.

When his assignation to the church of St. Mary was discussed, he had been reassured that under the circumstances he didn’t need to be able to speak the other official language of the country;  English was an official language just as well and more commonly spoken throughout the land.

And what bothered him even more was the music that had been chosen for the ending of the Mass without his approval.

Chris Coleman seemed to sense the uneasiness of the priest.

“Is something bothering you, father Ronaldo?” he asked cautiously.

Cristiano straightened his back.

“I’m sorry to say this, Mayor Coleman, but I don’t feel comfortable about including patriotic music in the holy service”, he said. “I would have liked to know about it in advance.”

Coleman pursed his lips and nodded his head looking serious.

“I understand”, he said finally. “My apologies. It became a habit during the wartime. Father Gary thought it was a good idea and after he had passed away, we kept it… partly to commemorate his spirit, I think. But I know that it is not really liturgical music.”

It was Cristiano’s turn to fall silent and think about the mayor’s words for a moment. “I don’t want to interfere with traditions that are important locally or that you’re accustomed to. I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. But I wish for consideration.”

“No problem, father Ronaldo”, Coleman assured. “And by the way, sorry what I said about the language. We were perfectly aware that we are not getting a fluently bilingual priest here and we totally accepted it. Don’t worry about it. We have very few Welsh speakers in our town and even fewer Catholics. You will always find an interpreter if a need occurs”, he said.

“It’s good to know that”, Cristiano said. He seemed to ponder something for a moment, tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, focusing on Coleman.

“What?” the mayor said despite himself.

“I truly thought the song was a hymn. Now I’m wondering what it said. Not all bloodshed and slaying your enemies, I hope.”

Coleman smiled at him. “I wouldn’t bring that kind of message to the church. There’s a minor reference to shedding blood for the freedom of our country, but I assure you, it’s mostly about honouring the forefathers, admiring the nature and preserving culture and tradition. Bards and poets, sea and valleys, that sort of thing.”

Cristiano squinted at the mayor. “Well, I’ll have to take your word for it”, he said and broke into a smile.

 

The Barry Horns had moved their instruments to the yard and arranged themselves in the shadow of the leafy trees by the stone fence. Father Cristiano saw them now for the first time in earnest. When they had sat themselves in their places on the choir loft, he had been preparing for the Mass in the sacristy; performing Asperges, blessing salt and holy water.

The band that had sounded so good looked like a motley bunch of older and younger men. A couple of the 11-man group were dressed neatly in suits and ties whereas some of them had clean and ironed but clearly well-worn work shirts on their backs, the rest of them being something in between.

The music they started blowing in the sunny air, however, brought a lively, bubbly atmosphere to the blossoming, green church garden. When the band was not accompanying a church choir alongside a church organ, they tooted out rhythmic, modern music: jazzy swing notes that made Cristiano want to dance.

Gareth noticed the priest nodding his head subtly to the music and smiled at him across the green lawn. Cristiano noticed his gaze and smiled back; he remembered Gareth praising the band to him on his day of arrival and wanted to acknowledge that he completely agreed with the Welshman.

Gareth shook hands with the parishioners he had been talking to and headed to Cristiano.

“Your village band is not that bad”, Cristiano said to him with a lopsided smile.

“Not bad? It’s fabulous. Wait till you hear the next one!” Gareth said.

The music paused and the band leader turned to the crowd.

“This is to Father Ronaldo from the Bale boys”, he said and the band started. Cristiano recognized the song as a vivid arrangement of a popular Cole Porter song from a few years back. The band played it as an instrumental, except for the title line of the chorus.

_I get a kick out of you!_ they chanted in unison, with a little pause and a muffled thump on the drum before the word “kick”. Father Cristiano laughed wholeheartedly, deep laugh lines framing his cheeks, squeezed Gareth’s shoulder with one hand and applauded enthusiastically when the music ended. He noticed Mariano and Martin looking his way, Mariano pointing at him with both index fingers and grinning widely, Martin giggling demurely. Cristiano lifted his thumb up to the boys.

“That was a fun surprise, Gareth”, he said to the Welshman next to him.

Gareth gave him a smiling sidelong glance from his blue eyes. “What about that kickabout later? Or I think we could scrap up teams for a five-a-side game some night.”

Father Cristiano pointed at Gareth. “You and me, tomorrow morning right after Mass.”

Gareth pondered a little. “We may get to start reaping tomorrow, but I think I’ll have time.”

Cristiano smiled. “It’s a deal, then. And definitely, start gathering the teams.”

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first verse of the stuff Coleman made them sing in the church:
> 
> Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi,  
> Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri;  
> Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tra mâd,  
> Tros ryddid gollasant eu gwaed.
> 
> Translation:
> 
> This land of my fathers is dear to me  
> Land of poets and singers, and people of stature  
> Her brave warriors, fine patriots  
> Shed their blood for freedom
> 
> (from http://www.wales.com/nationalanthem)


	18. Nativitas innocentium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Take, O take me as I am_  
>  _Summon out what I shall be_  
>  \- John L. Bell

 

“Cris!” Debbie Bale shouted on the stairs of the rectory and Cristiano made haste in his steps between the churchyard and his residence. Gareth followed him quickly; Cristiano often left the gate unfastened in a hurry, and now the priest was rushing to hear what Mrs. Bale had to say.

“Oh, there you are,” she said, catching her breath. “The phone rang. They ask if you accept a collect call from Lisbon.”

Cristiano didn’t say a word: in an instant, his face went from surprised to blank and from blank to expectant and he sprinted to a fast run, knees beating the skirt of his cassock.

Debbie quickly dodged to the side to avoid being knocked by the running priest.

“I gather that was a yes”, she said to her son who was closing the gate.

 

Gareth decided to stay on the front yard to wait for Cristiano’s conversation to be over. He should have been going home after the first weekday Mass to fetch a football and change his clothes but he was curious about the call. Most likely it was none of Gareth’s business, but as it was from Portugal, it was possible that there would be news of Sergio, too.

Sergio, he said silently to himself, mere thought of the name bringing a vivid image in his mind. He missed draping his arms across the broad shoulders, pressing his face to the strong, sunkissed neck that held Sergio’s head always up so straight and bold. He missed the vivacious laughter, the passionate temper and the flashing smiles, the warmth of the generous touches and kisses.

It was absurd to think that Sergio had been gone for less than a week, and that before his departure he had stayed with him for no more than a few days. To infatuate so fast and get so attached so quickly resembled the first crush of an immature child and there were moments when Gareth wondered if his feelings were real and if they were even healthy.

But on the other hand, he knew how fragile life was and how soon it could be over, and how easy it was to lose contact to a loved one in the uncertain world.

Reasons to embrace the love he had found were, after all, far greater than reasons to doubt it.

 

Cristiano had stayed inside for good twenty minutes when Gareth thought he’d better be leaving, anyway. Chances were he should head straight to the fields instead of the little one-on-one football practice they had been planning. In that case he should check with his father where they would start.

Gareth was about to take the first step away from the yard when he heard the front door open and turned its way. Father Cristiano stepped outside with a mixed expression on his face, like he didn’t know if he felt wistful, surprised, excited, guilty or plain out devastated. He looked into the thin air with eyes that seemed to be glistening with tears, bit his lip and shook his head.

Gareth walked slowly closer.

“Is something wrong, Cris?” he asked warily.

Cristiano snapped out of his trance-like bubble, like he had forgotten Gareth’s existence and was utterly surprised to see him there. However, he only kept his eyes on Gareth for a short glance before turning away to stare straight ahead.

“No”, the priest started and stepped down the stairs to face Gareth, “Nothing that would concern my work here.”

The priest seemed so absentminded that Gareth felt obliged to try and get more out of him.

“Something personal, then? Trouble with family?” he offered.

Cristiano looked pensive and moved his hands aimlessly in the air. “She called, it was the first time I heard of her since… I mean, I - ” the priest looked helpless for a moment but eventually turned his eyes from their unfocused wandering to the Welshman.

“Gareth, I have a son.”

 

Gareth flinched like Cristiano had punched him. Cristiano registered the flash of anguish in Gareth’s eyes and hurried to explain himself.

“I’m sorry, I know you already think of me as a flawed priest and you’re right, I’ve failed badly and if you want me away from your church, I understand it. But like I said, I’ll do everything I can not to let this affect my work in your village.”

The last words of the priest had already lost their listener as Gareth had turned sharply away to storm out of the front yard, around the corner of the rectory, almost stumbling in his hasty steps.

 

Cristiano found Gareth in the back garden of the rectory. He saw the tall, athletic figure next to an old, large apple tree on the side of the orchard. Gareth was facing the other way; his posture looked crumbled and he leaned to a sturdy branch with his hands like he had to hang on it for his dear life.

Cristiano approached the turned back cautiously. Gareth had warmed up to him during the past few days, after the distrust caused by seeing the angel in his bed had somewhat worn off, and Cristiano was afraid of alienating him again.

Gareth turned around at the sound of footsteps rustling the grass. The colour of his eyes, shadowed under the furrowed brows, resembled the lead grey coldness of a stormy sea; father Cristiano couldn’t recall ever seeing him so angry.

“I’m sorry, Gareth. You must be disappointed in me”, Cristiano started in a low, quiet voice, edging closer to Gareth in slow, careful steps.

Gareth huffed out a sound of desperate annoyance and gestured towards the priest.

“Do you really think I could care less about your failure as that kind of a father?” he said, waving his fingers at Cristiano, pointing up and down the buttoned front of his black cassock, shoving his finger at the peeking collar so furiously he almost poked Cristiano’s throat. “I mean, compared to what you are doing as the only father of a real live child?”

Cristiano opened his mouth as if to say something but couldn’t get a word out.

“Do you even think how many children there are left fatherless after the war all over the continent, all over the world? How can you even think to deliberately add your own child to that number? And what about your own altar boys? What would Mariano give to ever have met his father? How much would Martin even want to know who his father is? He was left on the doorstep of a convent as a little baby.”

Gareth’s hands were shaking. He turned his face back to the tree, bowing his forehead to the coarse bark of the branch.

Cristiano was lost for words. He touched Gareth’s trembling shoulder cautiously, helplessly, but Gareth shook the hand off.

Cristiano took a step back. He waited patiently and saw Gareth’s shoulders move along a few deep breaths.

 

Eventually Gareth turned back his way. His eyes were so full of bottomless pain that Cristiano found it hard to look into them, but the worst thing he could do would be to evade the gaze.

Gareth’s voice was numb and hollow.

“Emma was pregnant when she died”, he said, long arms hanging aimlessly down his sides. “It was one of the reasons I was granted the wedding leave.”

Cristiano gasped and leaned instinctively closer. “I’m so sorry, Gareth”, he said.

Pain and anger leaked in Gareth’s voice. “I would give anything if they were still alive. And I mean ANYTHING, understand? I would have given my eyesight and learned to live as a blind man. Or my feet and sit in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. I would even have given my life if that meant that they could be here instead of me. Anything.” His voice broke, the tears that had started pooling in his eyes rolled down his cheeks and heavy sobs shook his body.

Cristiano stepped right into Gareth’s space and drew him in a tight embrace. He felt Gareth’s knees buckle and unsure of being able to hold his weight he descended softly to his knees, pulling the Gareth down with him, pressing Gareth’s head to his shoulder, rubbing his upper back with stern hands.

“I’m sorry, Gareth. I’m so sorry you have to live with such loss. I’m sorry for your baby”, he whispered through the bitter lump knotting in his throat. Hot tears started streaming down his face and he kept rocking Gareth in his arms.

 

Cristiano didn’t know what he was crying for. He had always been emotional and easily caught on feelings of people around him, but he didn’t think these were purely tears of sympathy for Gareth. It was more like the tears were pressed out by the sheer weight of the world he had had the luxury to steer clear of; the vast amount of sorrow and loss of lives everywhere around him.

What had his mentor from years back, Alex Ferguson, said about him?

_I’ve always seen you as a person who is built for happy times_ , the old archbishop had said, his smiling face turned all serious,  _I hope there’s more to you than that_.

For the moment Cristiano felt he couldn’t agree more.

 

Gareth calmed down gradually. He still let his head rest heavy on Cristiano’s shoulder and the priest stroked his hair gently along the rhythm of his breath.

Gareth let himself be soothed, nurtured, cared for.

“I hadn’t told about it to anybody before this”, he said in a small voice. “Emma had written about the baby to me and told about her situation to our priest, and he was the one who used the information to get me the wedding leave. Then all three were dead.”

He and Cristiano shifted position to sit a bit more comfortably on the green grass under the apple tree. Cristiano folded his feet to his side under the cassock hem and helped Gareth to sit leaning to his chest, not wanting to let go of the grieving man. He sensed that the touch helped to share out some of his pain, soothed Gareth on a level where no words reached.

“That is so harsh. And unfair”, Cristiano said softly and kept on stroking Gareth’s arm steadily. “Unfair for you who are left here without them. Your loved ones are safe. God takes care of them.” he pressed his cheek to the crown of Gareth’s head. “And you have to let people take care of you.”

 

Gareth propped himself up with his arms and sat in a more upright position, wiping his nose casually with the back of his hand.

“Thank you, Cris”, he said, giving the priest a sidelong glance. “And sorry for getting so angry with you. I’m in no position to tell you what to do with our life. I just… it feels like such a _waste_ , you know? You could do a million things besides being a priest. I’ve seen you talk to people – I reckon you could sell or market anything to anybody. Or teach. And I think that if you were younger, people would have paid real money to see you playing football. You have such talent in everything you do. I shouldn’t probably say this as a catholic, but come on, you could even be a priest in almost any other Christian denomination, in those who allow their priests to marry!” Gareth said, spreading his long arms wide to emphasize his words.

Cristiano eyed at him curiously, squinting his eyes and lifting one eyebrow almost like a question mark. Then he nodded his head slowly. “I’ll have to take that into consideration”, he said.

Gareth’s puffed face showed marks of lightening up.

“I’m excited for you, Cris”, he confessed, a shy smile tugging the corners of his lips upwards. “You’ve got to be, too! I mean, newborn babies”, he said dreamily. “There is nothing more perfect in the world.”

Cristiano was deeply touched that Gareth was able to express such joy for something he ached badly for in his own life.

“You must be one of the sweetest persons I’ve ever met”, he said fondly to the Welshman.

 

They stood up, dusting leaves and grass out of their clothes.

“By the way, she said that the messenger who brought her my letter had said he would meet me in two days, in case she wanted to send a message back to me”, Cristiano said to Gareth. “And Ramos met her early yesterday. Do you know what that means?”

Gareth nodded his head, unable to speak from the wide smile spreading on his face.

“I know”, he said finally.

“Yes”, Cristiano added, “he could be here tomorrow or even tonight.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and thanks to everyone who has left some response on this, it really lightens up my life every time! I hope you're all good and I'd love to hear what your thoughts are of the story so far.


	19. Ite, missa est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For the first time in forever_  
>  _nothing’s in my way_  
>   
>  (Kristen Anderson-Lopez, Robert Lopez, 2013 / Frozen)  
>  
> 
> The final chapter.
> 
> How it all ends, how it all goes on.

 

 

After the emotional morning Gareth was grateful he had to focus his mind and body on some grueling, sweaty labour. He started with his father by trying out their neighbour’s new combine harvester on one of his fields.

After a few hours of working on a new machine, harnessing Del in front of their old reaper and taking her to the earliest of their own oatfields seemed slower and more tiresome than ever. It was even more so when Gareth knew that the next phases of the work, gathering the reaped crops and threshing, were still ahead.

Gareth had sometimes wondered why farming was, from the outside, often considered a conservative, old-fashioned way of life. He had always seen that farming was all about the balance of preservation and progress, emphasis being perhaps even more on the development side. The idea of a farm was about growth, improvement. It was about receiving land from your forefathers and working to leave it to the next generation in a better condition than it was when you received it: larger, richer, easier to work with, more productive.

That same idea made Gareth realize why his own ideas of how to develop the rectory as a farm had been on hold for years. His father had already been handing the reins to him, but when the war put a stop on Gareth’s work there, his father had settled to what was within the limits of his powers. That was maintaining the lands the way he had been used to. He was too old to learn new tricks, especially in times when there were little means for individual civilians to get their hands on new machinery.

And as for Gareth – his interest in improvement plans had dropped into a void with the sudden, painful lack of the next generation to set a goal he would be working for.

 

When Gareth called it a day, bits of straw and clingy dust from the dried dirt were tingling and prickling on his sweaty skin. His back, shoulders and arms were strained from holding the reins and adjusting the implement when needed. He drew a bath, the action bringing back the memory of Sergio relaxing in his tub, glass of scotch hanging loosely in his tattooed fingers, a thick cigar in another, narrow brown eyes smiling at Gareth.

Sergio had said he would be back. He had told Cristiano’s girl he would be back.

The thought of Sergio in a small plane in all possible turbulences above the mountains and seas between Lisbon and North France was terrifying, Gareth had to admit that, but Sergio had made the flight the other way. His safe return could not be too much to ask.

Gareth descended slowly into the steaming hot water, enjoying how the heat kissed his skin and slowly soothed his muscles. He let his head drop back to the high lip of the tub and closed his tired eyes.

 

Someone in the neighbourhood was still working on their field. Gareth heard the distant sound of a tractor engine through the just as distant chirping of birds that always flocked for flyaway seeds at harvest time.

No. The engine roared closer. Gareth knew immediately it was no tractor. He opened his eyes in an instant, jumped up stirring considerable waves up in the tub, some water splashing over on the floor.

He grabbed his distressed old waffle cloth bathrobe, tying it haphazardly around himself, and hurried to the door, wet feet leaving slippery footprints on the floor.

 

Weariness poured out of Sergio’s body like it had forgotten the straining ride up and down Welsh hills as soon as he dismounted his motorcycle. He made sure the bike stayed upright, pushed his driving goggles up on his forehead and looked at the chalked house to see if it looked like somebody was home.

The next thing he knew was that the wooden front door flew open and Gareth stormed out like a white lightning, grinning like the cutest village idiot of Wales. He ran to Sergio and straight out jumped at him, draping himself over Sergio’s front, kissed his face legs wrapped around Sergio’s waist, arms around his neck. The bathrobe had been of little help absorbing the water off Gareth’s skin; he was still dripping wet, drops of warm bath water falling from his hair to Sergio’s face, rolling down his cheeks, leaving clean streaks in the fine layer of road dust covering his skin.

Sergio steadied himself the best he could, not to overbalance with the weight of the sturdy Welshman and kissed him back. He started taking slow, blind steps towards the door.

Gareth wanted to stay there, be carried, hang on to Sergio like a squirrel on a tree branch, never stop kissing as hungrily as he had been starving for days, but he figured it would be safer to slide down to the ground.

He took Sergio by the hand and led him inside.

 

Gareth closed the door behind them and locked it from the inside. He didn’t want to be forced to bite the head off any poor soul who might accidentally want to wander in right now.

He gently took off Sergio’s riding goggles and hung them on a rack on the wall and pushed his leather jacket down his shoulders, catching it before it fell to the ground and placed it on a stool.

He brushed strands of Sergio’s hair back from his temple with his fingertips, grazing the shell of his ear delicately as he tucked the hair behind it.

“I missed you so much, Gareth”, Sergio said, words coming out in one rushed breath, “I thought about you all the time. I’d show you right now how much I missed you but I’ve been in the saddle for ten straight hours and that bike has really shitty suspension. Honestly I can’t feel my nuts.”

Gareth burst out a string of soft laughter. “You’re such a romantic, Sergio”, he said and mastered an impossible task of pressing a soft kiss on Sergio’s lips despite the ridiculously wide grin on his own. Then he muted down the grin and looked in Sergio’s eyes very sincerely. “I can feel them for you, if you want me to.”

 

***

 

Father Cristiano met Chris Coleman sooner than he was prepared for. He was pacing around on the front yard of the rectory, the talk with Gareth having left him fidgety and energized, head full of thoughts, when the mayor walked by and shouted a greeting over the fence.

Cristiano was grateful for the distraction. He let Coleman lead the conversation; important decisions were starting to take form inside him, but he didn’t know yet how and when he would put them in words to the people they affected. Meanwhile, concentrating on the everyday business around the village and its church were a welcome way to keep busy.

“It was quite nice yesterday”, Coleman said. “I understood you enjoyed the music, too, father Ronaldo.”

“I did”, Cristiano admitted. “The horns worked surprisingly well.”

Coleman nodded. “Unfortunately The Barry Horns won’t be able to perform the coming two Sundays”, he said.

“It’s good to know that. Why?” Cristiano asked.

“They’re taking part in an Eisteddfod, an arts festival. There’s a band competition.”

“Well, good luck for them”, Cristiano said. “I liked their repertoire.”

“Yes, they are versatile. Shame about the costumes, though.”

“Pardon?” Cristiano asked.

“Ah, you didn’t know about that? They stored their band uniforms in the old community hall where they rehearse. Some little boys played with magnifying glasses and bits of paper and there was a fire… the hall was saved but the clothes were ruined”, Coleman explained.

“Oh. That’s too bad”, Cristiano replied. Now the ragtag outfits the musicians had worn after the Mass made more sense. “But it’s the music that counts, right?”

Coleman shrugged his shoulders slightly. “I hope so”, he said.

 

***

 

Gareth tugged Sergio’s hand. “Quick. The water’s not hot forever.”

“You already have a bath for me? You’re a wizard.”

Sergio followed him close, grazing the nape of Gareth’s neck with his lips, letting his teeth scrape the skin gently. He undressed his boots, shirt and trousers by the bathroom door and left them on the floor.

Gareth’s eyes swept him up and down, smiling like he wasn’t exactly hungry but certainly had appetite for something extra good, and Sergio stopped on his feet.

“What?” he demanded through a smile.

Without a word Gareth stepped closer and peeled off Sergio’s underwear, tracing every bit of exposed skin with his eyes. He nodded his head lightly sideways to the bathtub. “There. Get in”, he said.

Sergio lowered himself in the warm water. This time Gareth followed him, sliding smoothly down behind Sergio’s back, coaxing his spread legs between Sergio’s waist and the sides of the tub. Sergio had to inch forward.

“Are you sure we fit in?” he asked.

Gareth nuzzled his chin over Sergio’s shoulder, beard brushing the side of his neck. “There’s plenty of room”, he mumbled, voice vibrating warm on Sergio’s skin, “I’m all snug and tight here.”

Gareth cupped Sergio’s jaw, caressed the soft skin between Sergio’s bottom lip and his beard with his thumb, turned Sergio’s face to the side and kissed him. Gareth’s lips were soft but determinate, it was clear what he was doing: welcoming Sergio home, claiming him as his own, sharing and savouring the moment of being reunited and promising more.

He slid his other hand under Sergio’s arm to his firm chest, down the tight bumps of his abs, getting teasingly slower the lower he went, loving the roughness in Sergio’s breathing his touch evoked.

“I think you’re regaining feeling down here”, Gareth whispered into his mouth.

Sergio answered with a muffled moan of pleasure and spread his thighs to meet Gareth’s hand. It wasn’t enough for long; Sergio soon turned around in the tub, his twirling motion splashing water over the sides. He faced Gareth, kneeling between the Welshman’s legs, and Gareth helped himself up with his hands on the sides of the tub to lift himself to straddle Sergio’s lap.

Gareth wrapped his arms around Sergio’s neck and found his lips for another deep kiss, licking his lips open, nibbling and sucking them before he went on to tangle his long tongue around Sergio’s as tight and hot as possible. Sergio’s hands were everywhere, in his hair, down the nape of his neck, grabbing his sides on the waistline, fingers digging in the flesh of his buttocks, spreading them apart.

Sergio felt Gareth’s mouth breaking from the kiss to gasp for breath. Gareth’s eyes looked into his up close, the look on them focused but fuzzy, tiny beads of water on the black eyelashes; pouty, swollen lips parted, gleaming wet, bitten red.

Sergio reached over the edge of the tub for a bottle of bath oil. He poured some sloppily over Gareth’s chest, all over the stretch of water between their joined bodies; it pooled in little puddles that floated on the water, oozing the scent of rosemary, pine and juniper in the air. Sergio gathered it in his hands, brought his slick fingers down again, kept his eyes tight on Gareth’s fascinating, expressive face. Gareth’s eyes were glazed with desire, his almost translucent, freckled nostrils fluttered with the short gasps of breath he took to respond each little touch of Sergio’s fingers.

When he finally slid down on Sergio, his head dropped back like surrendering to pure, immense pleasure.

Sergio pushed Gareth’s back to the slanting end of the tub, capturing him between its enamel surface and his hard, hammering body, locking Gareth’s mouth to a rough sloppy kiss.

“I think we’re getting out of this bath dirtier than when we started”, Gareth said in a mixture of breathless whisper and aroused snicker.

“You don’t know how dirty I’m going to get you. I want to fuck you on every piece of furniture in this house”, Sergio panted in Gareth’s ear.

Gareth suddenly wished he had a bigger house.

 

Several hours and one broken footstool later they laid in Gareth’s bed, in a loose embrace because they were too hot and spent for a closer snuggle.

Gareth told Sergio about Emma’s baby; Sergio drew him closer in his arms, pressed soft kisses on his temple and his cheeks to kiss away a lonely tear.

“Never hide your pains from me, promise? Whatever it is, let me help”, he said.

Gareth nuzzled his face in Sergio’s chest, too tired to say more.

Sergio held Gareth until he felt him fall asleep.

 

In the morning Gareth woke Sergio up with a kiss. Sergio laid on his back, combing through Gareth’s messy hair with his fingers.

“What do you want, Gareth?” he asked, looking in Gareth’s pale blue eyes.

“More furniture”, Gareth grinned.

“No, silly. What do you want from life? For yourself?”

“I don’t know. Nobody’s asked me that before”, Gareth said. It was true: he had led a life always serving some greater cause, purposes imposed upon him from the outside. Church, war and the farm didn’t ask what he wanted, and it had never occurred to him to ask that himself.

 

***

 

That morning father Cristiano handed his letter of resignation. He would serve as a priest as long as he stayed in Wales; he would request for the laicization once he reached Portugal. It shouldn’t be hard to set the process going there, given the icy atmosphere around his departure from Lisbon.

 

The same morning Debbie Bale finally told Martin and Mariano about the letter from Norway. The boys exchanged perplexed looks.

“Do we have to go?” Mariano asked first hand.

“I’d love to see sister Anna Theresa… but can we come back after that?” Martin asked. “I still have school.”

Mariano looked pensive, even a little worried.

“Yes, Martin still has a year of school. And I’ve thought of applying to study further next year. And try out for a football team. No big one, but still.”

“And this feels like home”, Martin said quietly.

“And even if I get in the school, I would come back to help out at summertime!” Mariano added quickly.

Tears rose in Debbie’s eyes.

“Oh boys, of course you can stay! This will always be your home. And if you want to visit the sisters, we’ll try to get the money for the trip some way”, she said.

 

“You really did it? Resigned?” Gareth asked Cristiano in the rectory, like he was surprised. “I hope I didn’t push you the way you didn’t want to go”, he added worriedly.

“You made me think, that’s all. I wouldn’t do anything so drastic if I wasn’t completely certain of myself”, Cristiano assured. “I believe I’m doing the right thing.”

Gareth nodded in agreement. “I’m glad you feel that way. After all, think about it. You got sent an actual _angel_ and what did you do with it? That should count as a sign”, Gareth said, a humorous smile softening the scolding words.

Cristiano knew he would miss the Welshman.

“I can see you think that way”, he said, winking his eye to Gareth. “It’s been nice to work with you, Gareth”, he confessed. “I’m happy I’m not leaving immediately.”

To Cristiano’s surprise, Gareth drew him in a hearty hug. “Me too, Cris”, Gareth said, “me too.”

“Oh”, Cristiano said as an afterthought when Gareth eased his arms from around him, “There’s another thing. Come here.”

Cristiano led Gareth to his bedroom and dragged one of his large luggage trunks from the corner behind the door to the middle of the floor.

He opened the locks of the trunk and lifted its lid. He drew a rattling sheet of thin tissue paper to the side from the top of its contents.

What Gareth saw looked like shiny fabric, a bright red surface glistening in the sunlight from the window.

“My mother always thought I would become a cardinal”, Cristiano said. “Before I left Portugal, she got her hands on this and bought it all as a farewell gift for me to encourage me and to remind me of my career goals.”

“It’s… a choir dress?” Gareth asked.

Cristiano shook his head. “No. It’s silk for a cardinal’s choir dress. And all possible other garments that go with it. Yards and yards of scarlet watered silk, I don’t even know how much. There’s also white muslin and lace for a rochet.” Cristiano lifted his gaze from the trunk to meet Gareth’s. “Mayor Coleman told me about the brass band’s wardrobe crisis. This should be sufficiently for at least vests and bow ties for all the players, if not jackets. And some white shirts for those who don’t own one or can’t afford one themselves.”

Gareth looked at him flabbergasted.

“Won’t your mother be offended?” he asked warily.

“I think I’ll have bigger things to explain to her. Hearing that this lot went to a good cause will only be a relief, if she even remembers to ask after it.”

 

***

 

The transatlantic call had to be specifically ordered from the telephone exchange and the line rattled and hummed. Ricky’s voice was still the same as always; Cristiano could hear the warm smile in his heartfelt greeting.

“What a nice surprise, Cris! It’s not long since I got your letter that you were leaving Portugal. It had been on the way over a week. So, how’s it there? Are you all settled in England?”

“Well”, Cristiano said, “There’s two things wrong already. This isn’t England, I’m in Wales. And no, I’m not really settled. I thought I was getting that way, but I’m leaving in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh. It didn’t work out, then?” Ricky asked empathically.

Cristiano was silent for a moment, gathering the mental strength to tell his news.

“Ricky, I’m getting married.”

It was Ricky’s turn to go silent.

“Really?” he asked eventually. He sounded surprised but not condemning.

“Yes. It’s going to be a civil ceremony, obviously, since I can’t validly marry in the Church”, Cristiano said.

Ricky heard Cristiano swallow after his words in a way that didn’t match the light, casual tone he had said them in.

“I would wed you”, Ricky said instinctively. “I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

He heard Cristiano chuckle in the other end.

“Thank you, Ricky. But I won’t hold you to those words”, he said.

“So, tell me more! This is a grave decision. She must be quite a woman.”

Cristiano told him the main part of what had happened.

“Her husband had left on the ship so shortly before his death that when she started showing, most people, fortunately for her, assumed he was the father. But she knows it’s mine. And I trust her. She has no reason to lie to me. At first she wasn’t even going to tell me”, he concluded the long story.

He heard Ricky sigh. “It would be easier for you if she had kept the secret.”

“But it wouldn’t have been right. Most of all, it wouldn’t have been right for the child”, Cristiano said. “My son”, he added, stern weight on both words, “has the right to a father.”

The line rattled emptily for a moment.

“I think I’m less surprised than I should”, Ricky said eventually. “Somehow I always saw a family man in you.”

“You did?” Cristiano asked.

Ricky hummed in search of words. “Yes. You always had a touch with children. And you… you know, you’re so physically, so concretely full of life. I always thought you are one of those people who are… somehow very naturally in touch with their sexuality. And the way priesthood demands you to cut it off – I sometimes wondered if it was the right way for you to serve God, anyway.”

Cristiano had never, despite their close relationship, heard Ricky talk so directly to him. _He is one magnificent priest if he can get to people that straightforwardly and sincerely without offending them_ , Cris thought.

“You never said it to me, Ricky.”

“You had to find your own path”, Ricky said very softly.

Cristiano had to agree. If Ricky had voiced his doubts about Cristiano’s calling during their seminary years or at the early stages of their priesthood, it would have instantly rubbed Cris the wrong way. This was something he had had to grow into on his own pace.

“You’re right, Ricky”, he admitted.

“So, what are your plans now?” Ricky asked. “You’re now still in Wales, did I get it right?”

“Yes. I’ve handed my resignation to the diocese but I promised to serve until they find a new priest here. One applicant came to see the church yesterday and I think he’s been interviewed today so it may be quite soon. Father Hennessey, tallest man I’ve ever seen. He’s local.”

“And then to Lisbon?”

“At first yes, I’ll travel there. I want to sort out the fatherhood officially. We’ll try to make amends with our families but I wouldn’t count on being accepted too heartily by her folks. We may go for a fresh start somewhere else. I’ve been thinking of Madeira. My childhood place.”

“You’re from Madeira?”  Ricky sounded surprised. “I didn’t know. I always thought you were a part of Lisbon elite.”

“I wasn’t until my mother inherited her father’s house and businesses. We moved when I was twelve.”

There was a short silence again.

“What are you going to do, Cris? I mean for a living.”

“I have an idea that I’m trying to push forward. That’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about. Have you heard of a charity program called Food and Football?”

 

***

 

Cristiano wasn’t sure if he would make it, but he had gone through his plan in his head and on paper numerous times and discussed it with anyone and everyone he thought could give him advice or new perspective.

His mother had given her blessing to the idea that the charity fund she had set up in Cristiano’s name would become a basis for a foundation that would run the ecumenical “Food and Football” program. Cristiano would work as the head of the program: give the guidelines for the football schools in new areas, and raise funds for doing and expanding the work he hoped someday would grow global.

He would have to live and support his family with his savings until he would get the things really going, but he was confident that he could grow the foundation strong enough to someday pay him a salary. If it proved difficult, he would have to find a job somewhere else or start a business – he already had ideas - and keep the charity on the side.

It would require hard work but he was ready for it. He already had contacts: Alex Ferguson was only delighted to hear that Cristiano would revive his old idea and upscale it, which meant that the Church of England was committed to participate, and the Catholic Church of England and Wales alongside them.

There were individual priests expressing their interest, as well as some secular organizations.

If the idea wouldn’t flourish, nothing bad could come out of it, either. If the program was set to wither and die, at least some children would have their bellies full of healthy food and get a good run on the football pitch before his foundation ran out of money.

 

Before his last Mass in the little gray church of St. Mary father Cristiano kneeled down for a prayer. He didn’t only pray for blessing for the service at hand, the service in the church; he prayed for success in the way he would continue his service in a new role, as a man, not a priest, out in the world.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that he said his prayer in his favourite spot in the church, between the side wall and the baptismal font.

The angels in the lively, colourful picture above him looked as dynamic and moving as ever, and Cristiano could recognize how the artist had seen them running, jumping and turning on the football field behind the church.

_Angel Sweetface_ , he thought and smiled, the luminosity of his expression matching the smile the angel was flashing over his shoulder in the painting.

A warm flame of certainty took light and slowly grew stronger inside Cristiano’s chest. It felt like a reassurance that he would make it.

_Don’t question it, Cristiano_ , chimed in his head.

 

***

 

The new priest settled in the village without fuss.

Autumn was turning closer to winter. The fields had been harvested and day by day the night fell earlier, darker and colder. Gareth and Sergio took turns chopping and storing firewood; at some nights it already had to be burned, but luckily there was still some drier stash left from earlier years.

The two men sat in their chairs by the fire. Gareth was cleaning his shotgun, Sergio rubbed soothingly Gareth’s father’s dog, Brynn, who was in the cottage because it had been on a hunt with the two of them. The dog had caught a tick behind its ear and Sergio was removing the pest with gentle, deft hands.

Gareth looked at them from the corner of his eye, smiling fondly. Sergio was good with animals: Brynn had warmed up to him faster than it ever had done with Gareth, and Gareth doubted if the dog would have let him touch a sore spot behind its ear like it let Sergio.

Sergio threw the annoying bug in the flames where it met its end with a short sizzle. He sighed and leaned his head to the back of the chair, rubbing the dog idly.

A bit of a Welsh rain had turned into a lot of Welsh rain during the day, leaving them cold, soaked and without a catch. Gareth sensed that it bothered Sergio: not just the unsuccessful hunting trip, but the weight of the upcoming gloomy, harsh winter.

“What do you want, Sergio? From your life?” Gareth asked softly.

Sergio turned his head to Gareth, still leaning to the back of the chair.

“You still haven’t answered that question yourself, Gareth. Remember?” he replied.

Gareth put the gun down and leaned forward on his seat, elbows on his knees, fingertips joined.

“I’ve been thinking about it”, he said. “And I think the answer is that I don’t know but I’d like to find out.”

Sergio looked at him tentatively. “How?” he asked.

Gareth wringed his hands like fighting uneasiness but lifted his eyes to Sergio’s.

“What if I hit the road for a little while? To see a bit of the world, get away from my usual life. Would you come with me?” Gareth looked at Sergio, biting his lip, and before Sergio said anything, he rushed to continue. “Maybe not right away but… as long as dad has boys here to help out, I could go. I have been looking around for prices of motorbikes and we… _I_ could get one.” He blushed a bit. “But if it _is_ we, I think we should head somewhere warm where people speak Spanish. You remember, Ronaldo promised us food and lodging in any of the communities that take part in his football program if we offer to do volunteer work? His old friend, father Ricardo, has one of the camps running in Miami. He has a lot of Cuban families in his parish, you would be of great help.”

Gareth was slightly blushed after his speech. “I know just going out to travel may sound stupid and fanciful but I can make use of it, too. We could take up farm jobs for money and I could get to see how they run some of those big modern farms, maybe learn something, bring back ideas”, he said, “Home will always be waiting for us here, anyway.”

Gareth knew it was a lot to ask: Sergio hadn’t had a permanent home for years and now he was pleading him to leave yet another one. “You don’t have to, obviously”, he said in a shy voice.

Sergio stood up from his chair, squatted down in front of Gareth’s chair and took Gareth’s both hands in his, stroking the pale skin with his inked thumbs and looked him sincerely in the eye.

“That’s a great idea, Gareth. You totally deserve it“, he said and kissed Gareth’s lips, “Let’s do it.”

 

***

 

**_Somewhere warm  
_** **_carved on a roadside tree_ **

****

****

 

WE RODE

EVERYWHERE

WE LOVED

RIGHT HERE

 

SR + GB

 

 

 

the end.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gay riders, sex positive catholic priests and a combine harvester! I'm actually quite proud of what I managed to get in here but I'd love to hear other opinions, too.
> 
> Thank you for reading and a great big hug to everyone who has given me support along the way!
> 
> I'll probably take a break from writing for a while but my mailbox notifies me if comments or kudos drop in on any of my works so remember, your feedback is always welcome and appreciated.
> 
> ❤
> 
>  
> 
> Have a great summer, everyone!


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